


Sine Tranquillus

by The_Arkadian



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Eye Trauma, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:45:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 70,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1464772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a post on Tumblr by Cypheroftyr (http://cypheroftyr.tumblr.com/post/82380227350/random-thought-of-the-morning)</p><p>"What if a mage took a head injury that cut their powers? Not Tranquil, but just unable to access the part of their mind that controls their magic?"</p><p>Anders survives a head wound that by rights should have killed him. He may yet come to wish it had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cypheroftyr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cypheroftyr/gifts).



“They went this way!” called Isabela as she darted further into the caves.

“Isabela, wait!” called Hawke then groaned as the Rivaini pirate disappeared. He rolled his eyes at the mage and the elven warrior then grinned as he ran after her.

“Just marvellous,” groaned Anders. “Because chasing a bunch of slavers into narrow caves is _so_ my favourite thing to do.”

“I thought it was talking,” remarked Fenris dryly as he moved to follow the two human rogues. “You do so much of it.”

“Oh hah hah,” replied Anders as he grimaced. Shaking his head, he followed, bringing up the rear.

He tried not to think about how low the ceiling was or how the walls of the passage seemed to close in on him as they made their way deeper into the cave system.

They seemed to have been chasing this particular band of slavers for several days now. It was supposed to be just a quick jaunt out to the Wounded Coast; Aveline had lost a couple of patrols up here and her forces were too thinly spread out as it was to spare risking further manpower on it.

_Hawke and whoever he drags along are expendable though, of course,_ Anders thought to himself, then dropped his eyes to the dusty floor of the passage in a flash of remorse. It was an unjust accusation to make; between them Hawke, Isabela and Fenris and, of course, himself were a force for pretty much anyone to reckon with in Kirkwall - and frequently out of it. Isabela had been keen to get out of Kirkwall for another chance to look for Castillion’s relic, and he’d needed to gather more herbs anyway - the price of elfroot in even the Lowtown market had gone up recently even though the stuff that was coming in to the city was past its best and poor quality.

It was obvious why Fenris had agreed to tag along - between the puppy-dog eyes the elf made at the Ferelden rogue and his own ongoing search for his former master, the white-haired elf’s motivations were pretty transparent.

Anders paused, one hand braced against a rock wall, shaking his head as he felt something - an unpleasant, unclean scratching whisper in the back of his head, felt rather than heard.

Darkspawn? This close to the surface? It _couldn’t_ be.... “Hawke,” called Anders, his voice low, as he hurried to catch up to the others.

Fenris gave him a disdainful look as Anders pushed passed him; the blond apostate ignored him as he hurried on ahead. “Hawke, wait! There’s something down here.”

“Yes, us, and a pack of unlucky slavers hopefully,” replied the rogue with a grin. His smile slipped when he saw the expression on Anders’ face. “What is it?” he asked, the smile disappearing.

“I’m not sure; whatever they are, they’re not close enough for me to pick them out individually. It’s darkspawn though. They shouldn’t be anywhere near here,” said Anders, his expression troubled.

Hawke sighed. “Well, as long as they’re not right on top of us....” He shrugged. “Come on, with luck we’ll corner those bastards, wipe them out and then be out and on our way again before the darkspawn get anywhere near us.”

Anders nodded, distracted by the unclean crawling sensation in the back of his mind. They pressed on through the caves, the awareness of the darkspawn’s presence somewhere in the vast labyrinthine sprawl of caverns below them vying with the mage’s growing claustrophobia as they passed from one cave to the next.

They caught up to the slavers perhaps an hour after entering the cave complex, and the resulting fight was a welcome respite from worries about darkspawn. Isabela vanished to reappear behind one of the slavers, curved daggers flashing in the light of Fenris’ brands as the elf lit up and charged into battle. Hawke’s bow sang as he picked off slavers, and Anders wove magic to cast shields and haste spells on his companions before hurling lightning bolts and blasts of ice at the slavers as their opponents fanned out across the cave floor. 

The blond apostate forgot his worries for a time as he cast paralysis on two slavers, making them easy targets for Isabela’s blades as he encased the feet of a third in ice.

He almost didn’t hear Hawke’s cry of warning until it was too late; only Fenris’ shoulder barrelling into his side shoving him out of the way saved him from the slaver’s blade that would have taken out his throat had the elf not acted. He stumbled and turned to see a slaver across the cavern nock an bolt on the string of his crossbow as he squinted at Fenris then drew bead upon the unsuspecting elf.

“No!” cried Anders and threw himself forward, calling up magic in his hand.

Something hit him in the face, and he knew no more.

**

The first sensation he was aware of as he drifted towards consciousness once more was pain; a terrible, nauseating pain that radiated through his head right through his left eye, driving out all coherent thought. He hurt. 

There was pain elsewhere in his body; his shoulder, his ribs, his left leg; but all the other pain dulled by comparison to the agony in his head. 

He slowly became aware that he was lying on his back on the ground, his head pillowed in someone’s lap. His face was wet with blood; he could feel it soaking into his hair. He couldn’t open his eyes; they seemed to be crusted together with blood. His left eye was a pit of screaming fiery pain that throbbed in time to his heartbeat.

He couldn’t remember how he had come to be lying here or why his head hurt so much. He could barely even remember his own name past the waves of dizziness that washed over him along with the agony and nausea.

Someone was stroking the side of his face, and he tried to turn his face away but cried out as the incautious movement made the pain in his head flare up.

“Easy there sweet thing,” said a low voice - Isabela? 

“What... what happened?” he moaned, trying to open his eyes. His eyelashes were gummed together with drying blood and his left eye wouldn’t respond at all.

“You got in the way of a slaver’s crossbow. By rights you ought to be dead; we’re not entirely sure why you’re not. The bolt went clean through,” said a voice to his right.

“Hawke?” said Anders. _Slaver? Crossbow?_ He remembered none of this. “Where am I?” he managed to murmur.

“You don’t remember?” asked Hawke; Anders could hear the frown in the rogue’s voice and could picture the scowl that he imagined Hawke directing his way. “Slavers, Wounded Coast? Gathering herbs?”

“I don’t remember anything,” said Anders faintly. “My head is aching.”

“The mage is likely severely concussed, it is a wonder he survived at all,” said a low rumbling voice. Andraste’s tits, that was all he needed - Fenris to sneer over him in his current state. Except the elf’s voice sounded almost... concerned?

“How bad is it?” asked Anders, still struggling to open his eyes.

“Bad enough,” said Isabela, her voice sober and serious for once. “You were hit by a crossbow bolt through your left eye. Looks like it cracked your skull and went clean through. Fenris is right; you have a very serious head wound, and we don’t dare move you right now.”

“Can you heal yourself?” asked Hawke; Anders could hear him shifting closer.

“I can’t even think straight, let alone cast anything,” groaned Anders.

A potion bottle was pushed into his hand. “Can you sit up and drink this? It’s a healing potion,” said Hawke.

“Wait, don’t-” began Fenris as Isabela and Hawke hauled Anders into an upright position.

The pain in his head intensified, as did the nausea and the sensation that the room was spinning.

“Watch out, he’s going to-” cried out Isabela as Anders abruptly turned his face away and vomited, retching as his stomach seemed to turn itself inside out, his body convulsing as it sought to empty itself of everything he’d eaten or drunk that day.

“I did try to warn you,” said the elf ruefully as Anders slumped, half-conscious, his head screaming in agony as his stomach twisted and spasmed, empty and painful. The mage tried to speak, but it was too much effort. Consciousness fled once more.

**

He didn’t know how much time had passed whilst he was unconsciousus. When next he awoke, he was lying on a bedroll, a soft pillow under his head, and he was covered in a couple of blankets. He could feel a bandage had been wound around his head. He could open his right eye, but his left eye wouldn’t respond. He was dazed and disoriented, his vision blurred.

His head still ached, but he could think a little clearer through the pain that throbbed from his left eye right through his head. He managed to turn his head a little.

Someone had lit a fire; Hawke, Fenris and Isabela sat around it, talking in low voices. They appeared to be trying to work out how to get him back up to the surface and into the city.

“He cannot go back to the clinic; he is no fit state to care for himself much less others in his present state,” said Fenris.

“Let’s worry about where he’ll go after we’ve gotten him out of these caves shall we?” said Hawke. “He’s in no fit state to be moved right now. I’m not even sure just how he managed to survive an arrow through the eye.”

“I have heard of such things before,” rumbled Fenris quietly. “It is rare but... not unheard of. The bolt was unfletched and had a simple conical quarrel instead of the more usual barb. It passed through causing minimal damage. Has it been an arrow, Anders would have lost his life and not merely an eye.”

His eye. That would explain why he couldn’t open his left eye.

He lifted a hand to his face and felt the soft dressing over the eye socket. Blind in one eye. He swallowed hard, and wondered how much of the eye had survived the passage of the quarrel. That would explain why his head hurt so appallingly and why he couldn’t remember much of what had happened. 

He laid his palm over the dressing and reached inside for his magic....

And felt nothing.

He must have made some noise or sound of alarm, as suddenly Hawke, Fenris and Isabela were all around him, hanging over him.

“Anders, it’s OK, you’re safe,” said Hawke gently.

“Just relax sweet thing, we’ll be getting you home soon. You’ll be alright once we get back to Kirkwall,” soothed Isabela.

Fenris was uncorking a healing potion. “He’s likely in pain; help him sit up,” he suggested.

“No, you don’t understand!” cried Anders as Hawke got an arm around his shoulders and helped him to sit up. “My magic - I can’t feel my magic!”

“What do you mean?” asked Fenris, scowling as he narrowed his eyes at the blond apostate.

“I can’t feel it; there’s this.. empty place inside where it should be!” cried Anders desperately as he reached inside again and felt nothing, not the merest hint of the Fade inside where it had always been his whole life. “It’s gone - my magic is gone!”

“But... you mean you’re... Tranquil?” asked Hawke slowly as he stared down at the distraught mage.

Anders shook his head in spite of the pain as tears began to roll down his cheek from his one good eye.

“I don’t know what I am any more,” he said. “I just know it’s gone. There’s nothing inside. My magic has gone.”

Hawke, Isabela and Fenris exchanged worried looks as the blond apostate wept in Hawke’s arms.


	2. Chapter 2

Anders was aware of the worried looks Isabela and Hawke kept casting in his direction, but he paid them no attention as he lay upon his bedroll, staring at the low ceiling of the cave without seeing it. Even Fenris had been almost gentle towards him following the revelation of the loss of his magic.

The question had been heavy but unspoken in the air: what of his passenger? He could see it in their eyes when they looked at him, the elf most of all. He knew they all wanted to ask about Justice.

But even if he’d felt like answering their questions, he could not. He could not have told them before where he ended and Justice began, and even now he couldn’t feel the spirit - he never really had, apart from the early days. There were thoughts that seemed to be more Justice than Anders, and other thoughts that had been pretty much all Anders, but as time had gone on he had found it harder and harder to tell them apart. He’d never been able to sense the spirit as a separate entity within him; the merger had been too complete for that. The only way he knew the spirit had not subsumed him completely was the occasional blanks in his memory where Justice had taken him over. Sometimes he was aware when the spirit took control, as though he were riding in the back of his mind watching; but more often there was simply a blank where for a period of time Anders simply... ceased to exist.

So the fact he couldn’t feel Justice inside him now meant very little really. He could not answer their unspoken question, so he avoided talking at all.

He knew he was in seriously bad shape. He’d read of people surviving injuries like his, but he’d never read of this happening to a mage. Could head trauma cause a severing with the Fade the way the Rite of Tranquility did? He had no idea. 

His head throbbed constantly, but he was almost growing used to it. He drank the healing potions Fenris handed him periodically during his waking moments, and slept a lot. He was aware that he was healing inside, but he had no way of sensing the extent of the damage to his head; even that little had been stripped from him by the crossbow bolt. His existence had narrowed down to brief periods of waking filled with pain in which Hawke and Isabela tried to coax him to eat, interspersed with long intervals of dreams which he couldn’t quite remember on waking.

At least he _could_ still dream.

Fenris had retrieved the bolt when Anders asked, and the apostate had studied the smooth unadorned steel shaft for a while, twirling it slowly in one hand. Such a deceptively simple weapon; in one swift sudden moment it had robbed him of both sight and magic - for his very reason for existing. What was a mage without magic, after all, if not Tranquil? And yet he retained his emotions. There was evidently more to the Rite than merely the severing of the mage’s connection with the Fade. Maybe there was good reason for removing their emotions as well.

He’d kept the bolt, to Hawke’s consternation, slipping it into his belt. He’d refused to answer why, much as he refused to answer now when Hawke softly called his name. He stared unseeing at the rock overhead and kept silent.

“Anders,” Hawke repeated softly, then glanced at Fenris. “He has to eat something, but he won’t move,” he said, worried. “He just lies there, staring into space.”

The elven warrior took the bowl of stew from the rogue and carried it over to where Anders lay.

“You need to eat, mage,” he rumbled quietly.

“I’m not a mage,” murmured Anders, not looking at the elf. Fenris paused, a spoon in one hand and the stew in the other. 

“What did you say?” he said quietly, not sure he’d heard Anders clearly. The blond apostate rolled his head on the pillow and stared at him dully from his one good eye.

“You heard me,” he said quietly. “I’m not a mage. Not anymore. It’s gone.”

“You still live,” observed the elf.

Anders laughed without humour. “I’d be better off dead,” he replied. “What use am I now? No magic, and I can’t fight. I’m no good to anyone.”

“You are a Grey Warden, are you not?” asked Fenris, frowning slightly. Anders glanced away.

“Maybe once. I’d be useless to them too,” he said listlessly.

“You could learn how to fight,” said Fenris slowly. Anders glanced back at him and frowned.

“Why? What would be the point? And why would you care, anyway?” he asked.

“Have it your own way,” said the elf without heat as he set down the bowl and spoon then rose to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion and walked away.

“I need some air,” the elven warrior said in a low voice as he passed Hawke and Isabela, picking up his sword as he headed towards the passage that would lead back to the surface.

**

Anders woke suddenly to realise he could feel darkspawn nearby - close enough he could make out the distinctive feel of a group of genlocks with an emissary.

“Hawke! Fenris!” he called out then gritted his teeth against the wave of pain that swept over him as he sat up. He reached instinctively for his magic to call up magelight as he grasped his staff, then swore with frustration as he encountered only a numb emptiness inside where his magic should be.

The small cave was flooded with brilliant blue-white light as Fenris lit his brands. “What is the matter?” he growled, reaching for his sword.

“Darkspawn. Several genlocks and an emissary,” answered Anders as he struggled to his feet.

Hawke rolled to his feet; Isabela was already up, her blades in her hands.

“Run or fight?” asked Hawke. Anders shook his head as he leaned heavily on his staff.

“There are at least five genlocks, and we’ll have a hard time against the emissary without magic,” said the former mage.

“And Anders is still not well,” added Fenris tersely. “We should go.”

“He who fights and runs away,” agreed Isabela.

“How far away are they?” asked Hawke, glancing at Anders. The blond apostate closed his good eye and frowned, trying to concentrate past the pain in his head.

“About... two, three hundred yards in that direction,” said Anders, gesturing at the far wall opposite the passageway that led back to the surface.

“Then we go the other way. Come on, pack up,” ordered Hawke. “Not you Anders, you sit there and rest.”

“I’m not a cripple!” snapped Anders.

“Yes, you are,” replied Fenris briefly as he doused the fire. “You are half-blind, injured and without magic. Sit down.”

Anders dropped down onto a nearby rock, his face stricken. He could only watch as the elf and the two rogues broke camp, Hawke slinging Anders’ small pack onto his own back as Isabela reached down to sling Anders’ arm around her shoulders, hauling him to his feet.

Fenris was right of course; that was what made it sting the worst. Half-blind, without magic, still weak from blood loss and with his head pounding painfully, he was a liability and was going to slow them down. There was no way he could take on any darkspawn in a fight.

He leaned on Isabela and his staff as they led the way towards the exit followed by Hawke; Fenris brought up the rear. 

“I can hear them coming,” called the elf as they reached a point at which Anders guessed they were perhaps halfway back towards the entrance. His breath was coming in harsh panting gasps as he struggled to move faster; he had no idea how long it had been since he’d been hit by the crossbow bolt but it must have been several days, judging by how weak his body felt. He stumbled and cried out as he nearly fell; only Hawke’s hand on his shoulder prevented him going down in an undignified heap and dragging Isabela with him.

“They are upon us!” warned Fenris as his brands lit up, illuminating the tunnel behind them. Hawke turned, an arrow on the string nocked and ready to fly. 

“Isabela, get Anders out of here!” ordered Hawke.

“What? No, wait, we can’t leave you two to face the darkspawn on your own!” objected Anders.

“Sorry to break it to you sweet thing, but we’re not hanging around,” muttered Isabela as she dragged him away towards the distant light of the entrance.

“What? No, we can’t can’t just run away!” exclaimed Anders as Isabela pulled him on and up the passage, the sounds of growling darkspawn and the clash of swords following them. “Hawke? Fenris? _Hawke!!_ ”


	3. Chapter 3

"Isabela, stop!" protested Anders as she dragged him into the next cave. She ignored him as she bodily dragged him across the floor of the cave, making directly for the light shining dimly through the entrance on the far side.

Anders set his staff firmly against the stone floor and managed to wrench away from her, stumbling a little.

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed as she halted and turned back. "The exit is just up ahead!"

Anders shook his head, ignoring the flare of pain in his head. "I'm not leaving Hawke and Fenris to face darkspawn alone," he said with grim determination.

"It's their choice, Anders!" she protested.

"And this is mine!" he snapped back as he turned back to face the way they'd come. He fumbled through his pouches, fingers brushing potion vials and reagents.

"Those miasmic blast things Varric and Hawke use - have you got any with you?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes - why?" asked Isabela as she pulled a couple from a belt pouch and handed them to him.

"Just an idea I had," muttered Anders as he slung his staff on his back then drew his belt knife to open one of the small capsules.

"I hope you know what you're doing," murmured Isabela as she drew her knives, the sounds of combat coming closer.

Anders ignored her, pulling reagents out of his pouches and adding something to the contents of the capsule, stirring it a little with the tip of his knife. He pulled a vial of lyrium from his belt, uncorking it with his teeth then carefully adding a few drops of the glowing blue liquid. The contents of the capsule began to glow with an eery green light similar to that of a paralysis glyph as he sealed it up then opened up the other capsule.

"Whatever you're doing, better make it fast!" warned Isabela. "They're almost upon us!"

Anders ignored her, crumbling reagents into the capsule before adding a few drops of lyrium. This time the contents of the capsule glowed a purplish-red as he sealed the capsule back up.

“Anders!” hissed Isabela.

The former Grey Warden tucked his belt knife back in its sheath as he backed away, unslinging his staff again. He may not have magic at his command any more, but the end of his staff bore a blade and he knew how to wield the staff as a weapon in a pinch.

Hawke staggered backwards into the cave, Fenris a step behind. “What are you still doing here?” exclaimed the human rogue raggedly as he stared at Anders and Isabela, anger warring with desperation across his face.

“Get out of my way,” said Anders, readying his staff.

“Are you mad, mage?” hissed Fenris, sparing him a glance as he turned to face the dark passage. “The emissary is right behind us!”

“All the more reason for you to get out of my way,” growled Anders as he twirled his staff.

There was a blast of energy from the passageway and Fenris was sent hurtling backwards into Hawke, the two men going down as the emissary emerged into the cave. It gestured at Anders and a bolt of green fire roared towards him.

Anders swung his staff and deflected the fire with the dragons-head end of his staff, twisting the staff in midair to sling the energy straight back at the emissary. He swore as he felt a backlash of energy through the haft of the staff, scorching his palm, even as he hefted the glowing green capsule and hurled it at the emissary’s feet. There was a brilliant flash of green light and then the emissary was held in a glowing green matrix of energy that pulsed at its feet and wound around its lower legs up as far as the knees, pinning it in place and effectively blocking the passage behind it.

“Get back!” called Anders as he brought up the bladed end of the staff and slashed the emissary across the chest, following up the blow with a hurled vial of something dark that shattered against the darkspawn’s bleeding chest. The emissary shrieked and wailed, clawing at the sticky liquid before hissing in fury, its cries eliciting screams of impotent fury from the genlocks trapped behind it as the blond apostate backed away.

“What did you do?” asked Hawke as he helped Fenris to his feet and they backed away towards the cave entrance.

“I’ll tell you later,” muttered Anders as he pulled out the glowing purplish-red capsule. “When I throw this, run.”

“What-” began Hawke but got no further as Anders hurled the capsule at the emissary. There was a bright flash of red light and a detonating blast that lifted them off their feet and threw them towards the cave entrance.

Hawke somehow managed to get an arm around Anders’ waist and pulled the blond apostate to him as the cave floor came up to meet them, cushioning their impact with his own body, dropping his bow to cradle Anders’ injured head as they landed. Anders cried out as pain lanced through his skull at the touch then slumped over the rogue.

Fenris was coughing as dust filled the small cave. “Got to get out of here,” the elf muttered as he rolled to his feet.

“Someone give me a hand with Anders!” called Hawke as he struggled upright. Fenris reached over and dragged a limp arm over his shoulders as Hawke got to his feet, his arm still around Anders’ waist. Isabela grabbed Hawke’s bow and Anders’ staff, coughing as she darted a glance back through the billowing dust to the wall of broken rock that now filled the rear of the cave where the emissary and genlocks had stood a few minutes before.

“ _Venhedis_ , what did the mage do?” wondered Fenris.

“Never mind that now, let’s get him out into the fresh air,” coughed Hawke as he shifted towards the entrance.

They emerged coughing into the late afternoon sunshine, all of them covered in pale grey dust and blinking. Fenris and Hawke dragged the unconscious apostate down the hillside, Isabela bringing up the rear. They halted near a small stream, and Isabela pulled out a bedroll and pillow for the two men to lay Anders on.

“How did he do that?” asked Hawke when they’d all caught their breath and had a drink from the stream to wash the cave dust out of their mouths.

“A couple of miasmic blast capsules he modified with reagents from his pouches,” said Isabela.

“So even without his magic our former mage is still a force to be reckoned with,” remarked Fenris thoughtfully.

“Well, he _is_ a Grey Warden,” pointed out Hawke. “I never knew he could redirect magic with his staff like that though.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about Blondie,” remarked Isabela.

“And you do, I suppose?” replied Fenris acerbically. The Rivaini pirate shrugged.

“Only a little more than you do. I met him in the Pearl in Denerim several years ago during one of his escapes from the tower. We only spent a handful of nights together before the templars showed up to drag him back again. It was fun whilst it lasted. We weren’t exactly swapping life stories though.”

“I can imagine,” replied Hawke drily.

Anders groaned faintly and stirred as he slowly came to. Hawke shifted to his side to help him sit up as Anders blinked dazedly. The rogue handed Anders a waterskin and the apostate accepted it with a cautious nod, wincing as even that small movement caused him pain. He rinsed out his mouth then drank.

“What did you do back there?” asked Hawke when he lowered the waterskin.

“Improvised,” replied Anders tersely. “Augmented Isabela’s little bombs with a few extra ingredients, used lyrium for the charge to power them. The stuff in the vial was magebane extract - hurts like buggery when it gets into an open wound, and blocks the ability to use magic - in mages, at any rate. I didn’t know if it would work on an emissary - they’re not exactly human, after all - but anything that would stop it getting off another spell had to be worth a try.”

He put a hand to his head, rubbing his temple gingerly. Fenris wordlessly uncorked a healing potion and handed it to him; Anders looked at the dark red liquid then sighed and drank it down.

“Do you think you can walk for a bit?” asked Hawke. “If we get going now we might make the gates of Kirkwall before sundown.”

“I can try,” said Anders as he lowered the empty flask then breathed a soft sigh of relief, the pain dulling to an ache.

“I am sorry I called you a cripple, m- Anders,” Fenris corrected himself. Anders blinked at him in surprise.

“You’re apologising to _me_?” he exclaimed.

The elf scowled and got to his feet, dusting off his leather armour. “We should move on,” he said tersely, slinging his sword across his back and heading towards the road.


	4. Chapter 4

Anders sat still as Bethany slowly unwound the bandages then carefully removed the dressing.

“Well? How bad is it?” he asked quietly.

The look on her face was answer enough.

“Anders, I’m sorry, I was never that good at healing, but this is... I’m sorry, I can’t. There’s nothing I can do. There’s... there’s nothing left to....”

He lowered his head. He’d suspected as much, but he’d held out some small hope there had been something there. If even a scrap of the eye had survived then there was a chance that with the right healing he might at least regain the sight in that eye, but if there was nothing left....

He clutched the bandages in his hand. No magic, and blind in one eye. 

Varric set a tankard of ale in front of him with a sympathetic look. Anders stared at it. He shouldn’t, he knew; he needed a clear head. But _shouldn’t_ warred inside him with _need_ and _want_ , and _want_ won out. He lifted the mug with a nod of thanks and took a long pull.

“So now what?” asked Varric, glancing to Hawke who shrugged.

“He can’t go back to his clinic; that’s out of the question for now,” said Hawke.

Anders lifted his head. “Why?” he asked. “I may not be able to heal with magic but there’s plenty I can do without it. I’m still a healer, Hawke. Or would you take that away from me too?” he added bitterly.

“No-one’s taking anything away from you Blondie,” said Varric reassuringly. “We just think maybe you need time to recover physically as much as possible before you rush back into anything.”

Isabela strode into the room and tossed something down into Anders’ lap. He dropped the bandages and fumbled for the object, then held up the black velvet eyepatch with a small frown.

“Can’t have you scaring the kids, can we?” she drawled with a wink. When he didn’t move, she plucked it from his hand and stepped behind him to put it on him.

Bethany hesitantly handed a small looking glass to him, and he lifted it to stare at his reflection.

Anders stared at the haggard stranger who stared back at him from the glass. His face was unnaturally pale, stubbled and unkempt, his dark blond hair greasy and lank. The eyepatch did nothing to improve his disreputable appearance, though at least it obscured the empty eye socket.

He flipped the patch up a moment then stared at the angry, red, raw wound where his eye had once been. He shuddered and flipped the patch back down then dropped the glass from his shaking hands as he buried his face in his palms and drew a ragged breath.

“It’s OK Blondie, you won’t look quite such a fright when you’ve had a bath, a shave and a good meal,” said Varric reassuringly. Anders lifted his head and stared at him.

The dwarf lifted an eyebrow.

“What are you trying to do, Varric?” Anders asked quietly.

“Help a friend get back on his feet Blondie, that’s all,” replied Varric as he lifted his tankard and tipped it towards Anders in a salute. 

Anders stared at him then slowly nodded. Varric had always been a good friend. He reached for his own tankard and took a long pull. As he set the tankard back on the table, he sighed.

“You said something about a bath and food?” he asked hopefully.

“I did indeed,” agreed Varric.

An hour later, Anders felt decidedly more human. He’d bathed, and allowed Varric to shave him as he relaxed in the tub, the hot water reducing him to limpness as he rested his head against the back of the large copper tub which was almost big enough for the tall, lanky apostate. 

He sat at the table, eating slowly as Bethany combed out his damp blond hair, spreading it out across his shoulders so it would dry faster. It felt strange and yet comforting, having someone else do something so mundane for him. 

He was aware of the others talking around them but kept his attention on the food. He hadn’t eaten properly in days, the constant pain in his head making him nauseous. It still lingered, but he’d downed another healing potion after his bath which had reduced the pain to a dull ache he could mostly ignore.

“I’m going back to the clinic,” he announced abruptly as he shoved his empty plate away.

“I thought we’d decided-” began Hawke, but Anders cut him off with a glare from his one good eye.

“No, _you_ decided,” he disagreed. “I don’t recall you giving me any say in the matter. But it’s my home - the only home I’ve got - and I’m going.” 

He picked up the eyepatch and with a grimace for the necessity, tugged it on before rising to his feet and reaching for his staff out of habit.

“We’ll go with you then,” said Hawke. Anders snorted.

“Yes, and advertise to everyone in Darktown that something’s happened to me? I’d have the Coterie smashing down the doors the moment you left,” he sneered.

“I will go with you,” said Fenris quietly as he rose and slung his sword upon his back.

“Why?” demanded Anders, frowning.

“As you say: a large group will draw unwanted attention to your... infirmity,” replied Fenris. “The two of us may pass unnoticed however. You have returned late to the clinic with only one or two for company before.”

Anders stared at him then shrugged. “Do what you like, I don’t care,” he said as he turned away. “Thank you for the bath and the meal, Varric.”

“Any time, Blondie,” replied the dwarf, watching the former mage depart with Fenris ghosting at his heels. The dwarf’s eyes were filled with worry as he watched his friends leave.

**

Anders set his staff against the wall near the curtain that screened off his small room from the rest of the clinic, and leaned against a nearby cot with a sigh.

Fenris closed the clinic door and barred it before turning to raise an eyebrow.

Anders lifted his head. “Why did you come with me?” he asked.

“Two may pass unnoticed where a group would draw attention,” rumbled the elf quietly. “I merely was concerned to see you safe home.”

“But why should you care?” asked Anders tetchily. “You never have before.”

“You were not-” began Fenris.

“What? Crippled?” Anders finished for him. “Go on, you can say it! You were thinking it.”

“I was not,” retorted Fenris as he stalked slowly through the clinic towards the apostate. “You are half blind, yes, and no longer a mage, it is true - but you were able to bring down an emissary by yourself. That is not the work of a cripple, Anders.”

“Then why?” asked Anders. “If you think I can handle myself, why care what happens to me?”

“I care because -” The elf broke off with a frown. “Why is it so hard for you to accept that perhaps I feel some concern for you, Anders?”

“I don’t understand why the sudden change of heart,” replied Anders, folding his arms as the elf came to stand before him. “You never gave a damn about me before.”

“That is not true,” replied the elf. “If I did not care for you as a companion, I would not have pushed you out of the way of that slaver’s blade. I care for you in the same way you care for me.”

“I don’t!” snapped Anders. 

It was the elf’s turn to fold his arms and regard the apostate sceptically. “Then why did you step into the path of the crossbow bolt that was aimed for me?”

Anders blinked several times and opened his mouth then shut it again. taking advantage of Anders’ dumbness, the elf stepped closer, unfolding his arms. 

“You could have been killed; you have been blinded in one eye and lost your magic because you were willing to risk your life to save mine. Why?”

“Because... I couldn’t stop it... or warn you in time....” faltered Anders in a small voice, pushing himself back but unable to retreat as the backs of his legs hit the cot behind him. Fenris pressed closer, stepping into the blond apostate’s personal space.

“Why would you do that, if not out of some concern for me?” asked the elf softly. “Anders, I do not hate you. You can be annoying and aggravating at times, and your dogmatic views on mage rights often infuriate me -”

“Dogmatic??” exclaimed Anders, voice rising in indignation. Fenris raised a hand and lightly pushed on Anders’ chest and the tall man fell back onto the cot with an alarmed squeak.

“Dogmatic and infuriating,” continued the elf. “But nevertheless you are a valued companion of Hawke’s who has worked tirelessly to aid others without thought of personal gain. You have placed yourself in danger often to heal or assist when I or Varric or Hawke or Isabela or anyone else have been in trouble or hurt. This is not the first time you have risk your life for mine. I do not hate you, Anders; I respect you as a skilled healer and warrior in your own right. And I am concerned for you, as I would be for Hawke, Varric or any other of our friends were they in your position.”

“Friends?” echoed Anders breathlessly.

“Yes, friends,” nodded Fenris as he leaned over Anders, his gauntleted hand still braced against the other man’s chest. His gaze suddenly dropped to his hand and he seemed to realise how close and intimate their positions appeared. Snatching his hand away, he straightened and stepped back.

Anders stared at the elf as he turned away. Fenris moved to another cot then turned and stiffly perched on the edge of it, regarding Anders across the few feet of space between them.

“Anders, you have been grievously hurt, and it will take you a while to recover. I am willing to assist if you will let me.”

“Assist? How?” asked Anders, curious in spite of himself.

“I will help you in your clinic, if you will permit me. And I will teach you how to use that staff of yours as a weapon. We will train together, you and I. You have a certain amount of skill already, I am sure it will not take you long to compensate for the loss of your eye.”

“And my magic,” added Anders. The elf inclined his head in agreement. The blond apostate looked down at his hands, turning them over, then ran a hand through his loose dark blond hair. He exhaled heavily, then looked up at Fenris.

“I need to think on this,” he said slowly. Fenris nodded.

“Take your time. You should rest,” the elven warrior observed as he got to his feet and held out a hand to help Anders up. The blond apostate eyed it for a moment, then grasped it and hauled himself to his feet. He nodded to Fenris then turned and ducked under the curtain that led to his small room.

Fenris stood and listened. He heard the sound of a heavy coat being dropped to the floor and then the creak of a rickety wooden bed as Anders sat down. Buckles jingled as the other man toed off his boots, and then the bed creaked again as Anders gave a low sigh. After a few minutes of silence, the sounds of faint snoring drifted to the elf’s keen ears.

Fenris nodded in satisfaction and drew his sword, taking up an easy stance where he could observe the clinic doors. No-one would disturb Anders’ rest.


	5. Chapter 5

[ ](http://arkadyrose.deviantart.com/art/Sine-Tranquillus-493110429)  
Click for full-sized picture 

At some point, Fenris must have fallen asleep; he awoke with a start. At first he was uncertain what had stirred him from his slumber (and he was chagrined to have succumbed to sleep so easily; he must have been more tired than he had thought), but then it came again - the sound of a faint whimper from beyond the curtain that hung over the doorway of Anders’ small room.

He rose from the low cot where he’d fallen asleep sitting up with his back against the wall of the clinic, and approached the small room on silent feet. The sound came again; a low, desperate sound, half-stifled, not quite a cry. He hesitated beside the curtain; this was Anders’ private domain, and he was loath to invade it. Anders had closed the curtain behind himself; Fenris did not think the mage ( _no, Anders, as he had pointed out to Fenris repeatedly every time the word “mage” had slipped from the elf’s lips_ ) would welcome his invasion.

Then Anders cried out - a hopeless, fearful sound, full of old hurt and pain and loss, and Fenris found himself thrusting aside the curtain and hastening into the small room.

A single candle was burning on the shelf, and in its scant light Fenris could see Anders had been restless in his sleep; his head had slipped from the pillow, the thin blanket pooled about his waist as he tossed and turned. Anders turned his face away and made that plaintive cry again as one hand clutched spasmodically over his bare torso, directly over his heart, and he shuddered before rolling his head back towards Fenris, eyes closed. In the light of the candle, Fenris could see the glisten of tears upon his cheek from beneath the closed eyelid of the unconscious man’s good eye; the ruined left eye was dry. His brow was creased in a small frown, and his breath was coming fast and frantic. He was lost within a dream, and whatever his dreaming unconscious saw, it terrified him.

Fenris knew all too well what it was like to be trapped in a nightmare; he had had many of his own - both in his time as the slave of Danarius, and ever since he had fled. He was haunted often by his past; things he had suffered, things he had done, his fears tormenting him. He could not help but feel sympathy for the former mage as he tossed and turned. Without thinking, he crouched down beside the cot and tugged off a gauntlet before reaching out instinctively to run his fingers gently through the tousled dark blond hair and murmur soft reassurance to Anders.

Anders turned his face blindly towards Fenris’ hand, and the elf felt the man’s breath ghost warm across his palm as Anders made a faint half-articulated and incoherent plea Fenris couldn’t quite make out. He gently stroked Anders’ face, careful not to touch the scar tissue around the ruined eye. Anders’ skin was smooth; surprisingly so; the light golden stubble covering his lower cheeks and jaw was light and tickled Fenris’ palm as he lightly let his hand caress the sleeping man’s face.

Anders gave a faint sigh as he nuzzled his cheek against Fenris’ palm briefly, and then his body relaxed into a deeper sleep, silent once more.

Fenris gently carded his hand through the soft hair, so unlike his own in texture, then gently withdrew.

***

When Anders awoke late the following morning, he emerged blinking and rubbing his good eye to find Fenris crouching over his small stove, stirring a pot of what smelled like porridge. At the scent of food Anders’ stomach gave a low yet audible rumble, and Anders could hear the smile in Fenris’ voice as the elf called over his shoulder, “Good morning, Anders.”

The use of his name was not lost on Anders; he paused in the act of washing his hands to glance at the elf, but Fenris’ back was to him.

“Good morning,” he answered back. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Some,” admitted the elf as he straightened. “Where do you keep your bowls?”

“The cupboard behind you. They’re, uh, a bit battered and chipped, but serviceable.” He felt a flush of embarrassment creep across his face, but Fenris seemed unconcerned as he turned back with two bowls and began to ladle hot, steaming porridge into them.

“Thank you,” said Anders as Fenris handed him one bowl then carried the other over to Anders’ small rickety table that served him as his dining table. Anders grabbed a couple of spoons and the small jar of honey he generally kept for making tisanes for coughs and sore throats and joined Fenris at the table.

“Only crates for chairs I’m afraid,” he apologised. 

Fenris merely inclined his head and drew up a crate as Anders did likewise, and then they ate in silence. 

Anders was full of questions but held his tongue, turning his attention instead to the porridge. It was rather good porridge, he had to admit; certainly as good as anything he himself could have made - if he’d had the ingredients, he amended to himself.

After breakfast, Anders pumped water into a bucket and put his hand into the water without thinking and then gave a low cry that caused Fenris to look up from where he sat with a look of polite concern.

“I forgot,” Anders grimaced. “I can’t just heat the water with magic the way I used to.” He sat back and then kicked the bucket in frustration, heedless of the water that slopped over onto the floor.

Wordlessly, Fenris took a large pot - the biggest one Anders owned, the one he used for sterilising bandages in - and set it over the fire before bending to retrieve the bucket. He poured the water into the pot then set the bucket aside.

“It will take some time for the water to heat. The washing up can wait a little while. Come; it is time for your first lesson.” He held out a hand to Anders, who glanced at it then up at Fenris from his position on the floor. The elf appeared unperturbed by his little outburst.

Anders took his hand and allowed Fenris to tug him to his feet. “Lesson?” he echoed.

In answer, Fenris tossed his staff to him before taking up his own sword then grinning at Anders ferally.

Fenris worked Anders hard, attacking him from several angles and forcing the former mage to bring up the staff to defend himself. he used only the flat of the blade (he was not trying to kill him, after all); Anders was a quick study, and towards the end he was even managing to get in a few attacks himself. But at the end of a punishing work-out, he still sported several bruises whereas Fenris was completely unscathed.

“This is going to be a painful process,” Anders remarked ruefully afterwards as he smoothed salve over his purpling bruises.

“And one you will master,” replied Fenris.

“Tomorrow then?” asked Anders.

“Tomorrow,” agreed Fenris.

The elf left Anders to wash up and prepare for the first of his patients that morning. As Anders worked, treating his patients with salves, poultices, decotions and tisanes, dressing wounds and dispensing advice, he reflected on the morning’s activity. Thankfully most of his patients were not seriously ill or hurt; in the general course of most days in the clinic he’d only rarely needed to call on his magic for the more serious cases. Only one case came in that required more than herbs and lotions could deal with; a nasty supporating wound that had turned septic. For that he resorted to one of his healing potions - part of a large batch he’d brewed a few weeks ago, before the ill-fated trip to the coast. 

If his patient thought it strange that the healer gave him a potion instead of healing with his magic, he said nothing of it, merely thanking Anders effusively as he left. Anders extinguished the lamp once he had gone, and set about tidying up.

Fenris returned as he’d finished setting the clinic to rights, bearing with him a pot of stew sent by Leandra, Hawke’s mother. They ate in companionable silence, and Anders retired to bed shortly afterwards. The following morning, they sparred again.

The days passed thus for several weeks. Each morning, Fenris would cook breakfast; they would set the large pot of water over the fire to heat then begin the lesson, breaking off only to remove the boiling water from the fire. Once the lesson was concluded, Anders would treat his bruises as Fenris explained where he had erred in the lesson, making suggestions as to how Anders could improve as he washed up. 

Then Fenris would depart before the first patients began filtering into the clinic, returning with food in the evening which they would share. After a while, they began talking over dinner; Fenris talking about some of the lands he had passed through after escaping Danarius, Anders sharing stories of his own escapades on the run from the Circle in Ferelden. As if by unspoken agreement, neither spoke of their past - Fenris of his time as a slave, Anders of his time in the Circle or the Grey Wardens. 

And they never spoke of magic or the plight of mages.

Then Anders would retire to his small room as Fenris took up guard once more.

They were becoming - not _friends_ , precisely. But a certain respect and camaderie was beginning to grow between them.

And then one afternoon, on a day when Anders had kept the clinic closed so he could do some washing (both of his own clothes, assorted bandages and rags he used for dressings - and himself), Fenris arrived unexpectedly with Hawke and Varric in tow - and they had brought gifts for Anders. Varric had brought a book on alchemy.

And Hawke had brought a new staff.


	6. Chapter 6

Anders stared at the staff.

“Is this some sort of joke?” he asked Hawke, frowning, a touch of anger in his voice.

“Not at all,” replied Hawke. “I had it made specially, though Fenris helped advise me on certain specifications. You’ll notice the blade is longer than normal for a mage’s staff; it’s stronger, too. The balance is better for hand-to-hand combat; the haematite ball on the other end is to counterweight the blade more than channel magic - which you won’t be doing much of.”

Anders hefted the staff thoughtfully. The blade was the length of a longsword, fullered, double-edged and a little wider than a normal sword. The shaft was silverite, sturdy and capable of withstanding impacts and vibrations from parrying sword blows with the blade, the handgrip bound with black leather and twisted silver wire. The balance was perfect for Anders. 

“I had some enchantments laid on it by a merchant in Lowtown; I told him you need to be able to knock magic away and throw it back at the caster. I figured after seeing the way you were able to sling that emissary’s magic right back at it, maybe if you had a staff with enchantments to specifically attract spells to it and sling them back whilst insulating you as much as possible from the effects might be useful.” Hawke shrugged. “I can’t guarantee that he necessarily grasped what I was trying to tell him, but Bethany checked it over and she says it should work the way I asked for; Merrill agreed.” He grinned at Anders. “It’s also got the usual enchantments against breaking and what have you, and it’s designed to augment lightning attacks - so should you recover your magic, it’ll be useful as a staff again. It’s just plain enough that you can get away with people mistaking it for a polearm, and just flashy enough for you.” He winked, and Anders couldn’t quite suppress a small grin.

“How does it feel?” asked Fenris.

“Like it was made for me,” admitted Anders. “The balance is perfect.”

“How about you try it out, Blondie?” suggested Varric. “Give it a twirl.”

“Better yet, let’s take a trip out somewhere quiet where we can all help you put it through its paces, Anders?” suggested Hawke. “Feel like a quick jaunt to the coast? Bethany can join us and you can practice against a mage and see how it handles deflecting magic - see if it works the way it’s supposed to?”

“I don’t know,” said Anders, turning away. he glanced at the alchemy book Varric had placed on his desk; laying the staff carefully down on a nearby table, he took up the book and began to leaf through it carefully. “Varric, where did you get this?” he asked curiously. “We studied some alchemy in the Circle but this is a lot more advanced than anything the apprentices were allowed to play with. I can follow it, but....”

“Ah, you know me, Blondie; contacts everywhere and occasionally interesting things pass through my hands. After what you were able to do with those two blast capsules, I figured a little alchemy might be right up your street, give you a chance to come up with some interesting stuff to supplement your skills as it were.” The dwarf shrugged. “Have a read, let me know if it’s useful, and give me a list of whatever supplies you think you might need to experiment with. Just don’t blow yourself up, alright? The templars may not have any interest in a herbal healer who dabbles in alchemy, but the Guard might if you start blowing parts of the city up and I’d hate to have to explain this to Aveline.”

Anders nodded absently, leafing through the book, his mind already busy mentally calculating what equipment and reagents he’d need, drawing a scrap of paper towards himself then fumbling for a quill with his right hand to start jotting things down.

“I can see you’re going to be pretty busy with that, Anders,” said Hawke. “Tell you what, you see what you can come up with, and let’s hit the coast in, say, a week or two?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, certainly,” said Anders distractedly as Hawke and Varric made their way to the door with knowing grins. “Thanks for the book - and the staff!” he called out, looking up belatedly from the book. Varric merely raised his hand in acknowledgement with a smile, and then Anders was alone with Fenris.

“I can see you are too preoccupied to spar today,” observed Fenris. “Perhaps it would be best if we resumed our practice tomorrow.”

Anders glanced down at the staff, and then back at the book before glancing up at Fenris, obviously torn between the desire to immerse himself in the book and the awareness that he ought to practice with the staff. After a moment’s indecision he closed the book with a small sigh. 

“No, I can read later; I should try out this staff. It’ll do me no good if I don’t actually practice with it,” he answered. He laid the book down atop the scrap of parchment he’d been scrawling a list of reagents he’d need, then took up the new staff.

Fenris nodded approvingly.

***

Anders appeared at the Hanged Man early the next day with a list of reagents, minerals and equipment he needed. The dwarf grumbled a little at being woken so early, but when he saw the list, he raised an eyebrow. 

“This is quite the list, Blondie,” he said, glancing up at the former mage.

“You _did_ say to give you a list,” said Anders anxiously, twisting his fingers together anxiously.

“Now, don’t fret, just leave this with me, alright? I’ll see what I can do. Some of this stuff I may have to order from Orzammar.” 

“Anything will help,” said Anders. “Thanks, Varric, this is going to really help.”

Varric grinned. “No problem, Blondie. Did you have breakfast yet?”

Anders shook his head. “Not yet. I have to get back; Fenris will be arriving for our morning practice and breakfast soon.”

“Breakfast, eh?” said Varric, his eyes lighting up as his storyteller’s senses detected a whiff of an interesting story. “You and Broody, huh?”

“Not like that, Varric,” Anders rolled his eyes. “He’s just been training me how to fight with a staff. It just makes sense to eat together seeing as he brings me food anyway; coin’s a lot tighter now I can’t accompany Hawke on any of his trips, and Fenris insists I need to eat properly to build the right muscle for staff work.”

“He’s right, Blondie,” nodded varric. “You’re building muscle - it’s looking good on you. Though you could probably use a new wardrobe; looks like the shoulders on your coat are getting a bit tight. Maybe if Broody thinks you’re ready, you could come along on this little venture Hawke’s got planned for this evening.”

“Oh?” said Anders, his ears pricking up. He needed new supplies for the clinic and the coin from one of Hawke’s ventures would mean he could go shopping. He might even be able to afford a few groceries, depending on how much his share came to.

“Just a little patrol work for Aveline; there’s been more smuggler activity coming through the tunnels under Darktown recently and Aveline thinks a new agent is trying to move in on Athenril’s turf. Aveline’s none too fond of our favourite pointy-eared smuggler, but she’d rather deal with Athenril than open warfare between rival smugglers and a new kid on the block. She’s asked if we can go check it out and persuade the newcomers to move on somewhere else.”

“Who’s coming?” asked Anders.

“Hawke, naturally, which also means Sunshine; yours truly of course - and Broody. An extra blade would come in useful - especially if you can modify some more miasmic blast capsules like you did before. What do you say Blondie - want to come join us and put that new staff of yours to the test properly?” Varric tilted his head. “I’ve got a pouch of the capsules here you can take; you could work on them this afternoon if you get a little quiet time maybe.” He smiled wrily. “You look like you could use a change of scenery,” he added.

Anders took the pouch and hefted it thoughtfully. “You’re probably right,” nodded Anders thoughtfully. “I’ll think about it and see what Fenris thinks.”

“You do that, Blondie,” nodded Varric approvingly. “Hold onto the capsules in any case - I’m curious what you can come up with. I’ll have most of the stuff on your list in a day or two.”

“Appreciate this, Varric,” said Anders.

“Any time, Blondie. Any time.”

***

The morning’s sparring with Fenris went well; Anders managed to block each of Fenris’ attacks and pressed his own hard enough that Fenris was forced to put more effort into defending himself.

“Good,” rumbled the elf approvingly when he finally called a halt. “You have come along well.”

“Well enough to come along with you and Hawke?” asked Anders, a hopeful note in his voice.

“You have been talking to Varric, I see,” said Fenris as he ran an oiled cloth along his blade. He’d been wielding his great two-handed sword in this session as Anders had improved so much and his new staff was a far more resilient weapon than his old staff. 

Anders watched Fenris, trying to hold in the nervous anticipation and impatience he felt as the elf slowly and steadily cleaned and oiled his greatsword before sheathing it, all the while considering Anders’ request. Finally he looked at Anders and nodded once.

“You’ve come along well for one who was unused to the blade and not trained to it as a warrior. I would have no fear for you walking Darktown alone with your staff in your hand. I think it is time to test your skills in a true fight.”

Anders couldn’t restrain the grin that broke out across his face, and Fenris found himself returning it. The elf gestured to Anders’ clothes.

“Your coat is too flimsy to protect you against a blade,” he said thoughtfully. “You will need better protection against smugglers’ blades.”

“The only armour I’ve ever worn was Warden gear,” said Anders dubiously. Fenris nodded.

“As I understand it, the uniform for mages in the Wardens is similar to that worn by rogues such as Hawke; light armour, flexible, for freedom of movement,” said Fenris slowly.

“Yes, quilted, some leather,” agreed Anders.

“Just so,” said Fenris. “Come by Hawke’s place just after sundown; perhaps some of Hawke’s old mercenary gear might be suitable for you.” He buckled his greatsword on his back then inclined his head slightly towards Anders. “Until this evening then.”

Once Fenris had gone, Anders shut and barred the door. He decided to leave the lanterns unlit for once. He made his way over to where he’d laid the staff and spent some time cleaning and oiling it, caring for it as Fenris had shown him, using the small kit the elf had brought with him on their third lesson together. Then he took up the bag of miasmic blast capsules Varric had given him, fetched a couple of precious lyrium vials from the small stash in the hidden box beneath the loose floorboard beneath his bed, and took them over to his preparation area. 

He opened the alchemical manual to a page he’d bookmarked earlier, and set to work.


	7. Chapter 7

Several hours later, Anders was feeling a lot less confident.

He’d been fine right up to the point they descended into the smugglers’ tunnels. Hawke took the lead, Fenris beside him; Bethany walked beside Anders, with Varric bringing up the rear. It had felt much like any other job with Hawke, and the familiarity should have been comforting - but that only made the differences feel all the more jarring.

He missed his coat. It was silly and irrational, but he felt somehow naked without the familiar feel of it against his legs; the studded gambeson only came down to his hips, and the leather trousers felt stiff. His legs felt heavy thanks to the slightly dented greaves strapped over his shins.

His hand strayed often to the staff at his back. Hawke had been right; slung with the blade uppermost, it did look like a polearm. His hands strayed almost as often to the pouches slung on his belt, fingers brushing over the smooth leather lightly. He’d worked all afternoon, modifying the blast capsules. One pouch contained what he hoped would be an improved version of the holding glyph blast; another, an augmented fire blast. A third held what should be a form of ice blast, if he’d gotten his calculations right - certainly the small experiment he’d tried back in the clinic that had resulted in a coating of frost over about a third of the clinic floor and halfway up the wall had been promising. 

He also carried several of his dwindling store of health potions, plus a healer’s kit with elfroot and bandages. He may not be a mage anymore - but he was still a healer. No-one could take that away from him.

The strangeness and differences were tolerable in themselves however; it was the descent into the tunnels that struck sudden fear and doubt into the former mage; he was acutely aware of the several hundred tons of rock directly over their heads, and the walls of the tunnels felt too close, too enclosed, the air stifling and oppressive. 

He’d never liked being underground. It had been one of the worst part of being in the Wardens - the frequent trips into the Deep Roads, patrolling in search of darkspawn. It reminded him too much of -

No. Don’t think about it. Not down here. 

It didn’t help that as it got darker, the tunnels only dimly lit by flickering torchlight, his vision was far worse, one-eyed as he now was. The torches flickered, and the dancing shadows made it harder to keep his bearings. He found he was straining his ears for tell-tale sounds of footsteps. He was sweating beneath the warm quilting of the gambeson. 

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand at his elbow; he bit back a yelp as he jerked in surprise, and Bethany’s eyes were apologetic as she stared up at him. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to make you jump. You’re not alright, are you?”

“What gave it away?” asked Anders, attempting a grin that felt more like a grimace. He realised he’d reached for the staff on his back again, fingers brushing the silverite haft as though for reassurance.

Bethany didn’t answer, merely regarded him with that sympathetic look that made his stomach twist and filled his mouth with a sour taste. 

“I don’t need pity,” he muttered tersely as he pulled away from her hand on his elbow.

He firmly clamped down on the irrational urge to reach for her hand a few minutes later when one of the torches guttered unexpectedly.

Fenris thought him ready for this. He could handle it. He couldn’t hide in the clinic forever, and he needed the coin. 

He reached for the staff again.

“Company,” Hawke called back in a low voice. Anders felt his heart begin to race, his hand suddenly cold and clammy on the silverite staff. Had he been too warm before? Now he felt cold sweat trickle down his spine, dread coiling like a leaden lump in the pit of his stomach. Instinctively he reached inside for that place where his magic used to lie and felt nothing, only a hollow emptiness that ached, like a missing tooth whose socket he couldn’t stop probing with his tongue. He couldn’t even feel the pull of Bethany’s magic as she called a ball of flame into her hand, as easy as thought. He remembered how it felt to be able to do that.

He felt a surge of bitter jealousy, and looked away.

There was a shout from up ahead. Fenris’ brands lit up and he streaked forward with inhuman speed. Anders felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as Fenris’ brands lit up the tunnel with blinding silvery-white light; he leapt forward behind the elf in spite of the sick feeling in his stomach, the staff already in his hand as he reached into his pouch for a paralysis capsule.

There were twelve smugglers, none of them Athenril’s folk; they’d worked often enough on jobs for the elven smuggler that they could tell that much. That meant they were the newcomers who’d been causing trouble for both Athenril and the guard. Anders hurled the capsule at the feet of the nearest three and had the satisfaction of their curses and alarm as their feet were transfixed to the ground.

“Nice one, Blondie!” Varric’s voice rang out from behind and to the left of Anders as Bianca sang; he didn’t chance a glance backwards, instead bringing up the blade of his staff to block the swing of the smuggler who’d managed to evade the paralysis blast that had transfixed the other smugglers. 

He’d been afraid that all Fenris’ lessons would go clean out of his head when faced with an actual armed opponent instead of a sparring partner, but it seemed all the white-haired elf’s patient drilling had paid off; Anders found himself reacting automatically as he parried the sword blow, swinging the other end of the staff around to crack the haematite globe into the side of the man’s head before reversing his grip on the staff with a twirl and slashing open the man’s stomach. As the hapless smuggler dropped his sword and clutched at his spilling intestines, Anders dealt him a merciful killing blow and drove his blade through the man’s throat before kicking the warm and twitching body aside, parrying another sword blow aimed at his head.

Four smugglers had managed to get past Fenris and were moving around to flank Bethany; Anders snatched one of his ice blast capsules and flung it at the feet of the lead smuggler and tendrils of ice raced up to freeze them where they stood. Anders nodded in grim satisfaction as Varric fired an explosive bolt at them, killing them where they stood.

He heard Hawke cry out and curse; without thinking, he turned with a hand outstretched towards Hawke as he reached inside for mana... and found nothing. He clenched his fist in frustration as he sprinted towards the rogue who was clutching his arm as he backed away from three more smugglers. 

“Hawke! _Duck!_ ” he called as he pulled one of the fire blast capsules from his belt pouch and hurled it towards the three smugglers. Hawke staggered back with one hand raised to shield himself from the wash of heat as the three men were engulfed in a ball of flame and incinerated on the spot.

“Maker, Anders, a bit more warning?” exclaimed the rogue as he retreated from the conflagration.

“Sorry,” panted Anders, abashed. “I didn’t have a chance to test those ones this afternoon.” he stared at the cut that ran down Hawke’s arm from shoulder to elbow. “How bad is it?”

Fenris and Varric had dealt with the last two smugglers as Bethany helped her brother out of his tunic whilst Anders pulled out a healing poultice and bandages. He set to work swiftly. Thankfully the wound was not as bad as it had initially looked; it was deepest at the top where the sword had gotten past Hawke’s guard but grew shallower towards the elbow. Firm pressure slowed the bleeding, and elfroot and a firm bandage stopped it entirely. Hawke rotated his shoulder to test the range of movement then nodded his thanks.

“That should hold up fine for now,” he said as he pulled his tunic back on.

“If I had my magic -” began Anders bitterly, but broke off as Varric patted him on the arm.

“Now, now, Blondie,” the dwarf chided gently. “Hawke will manage just fine, and you did good there. You took out nearly half those smugglers by yourself; looks like Broody’s lessons paid off.”

“He is a quick and capable student,” answered Fenris as he joined them, wiping blood off his blade. He inclined his head slightly towards Anders. “I had every confidence in his abilities.”

Anders blinked, the quiet praise unexpected. He felt his cheeks colour as he dropped his gaze and mumbled thanks.

“You put that book to good use I see,” remarked Varric.

“I think the fire blast formula needs some work,” remarked Hawke ruefully as he ran a hand through his slightly singed hair. “Or maybe I need to learn to duck quicker,” he added hastily as Anders looked chagrined.

“Well, Blondie could hardly go testing out his little fire bombs in his little shack down in Darktown, Hawke,” pointed out Varric. “And those ice blast bombs are fantastic, kiddo! I know people who’d pay a pretty penny for those - and the paralysis ones too.”

“You think so?” asked Anders. Varric chuckled.

“Blondie, trust me - you make ‘em, I guarantee you’ll have customers for ‘em.”

Anders blinked. His only intention had been to try and replicate the effects of some of his more useful combat spells through alchemy to help Hawke; it hadn’t occurred to him that they could be a source of revenue.

“We should move on,” rumbled Fenris. “I doubt those were the only smugglers.”

Hawke nodded. “Come on,” he said, and headed off again down the tunnel.

Anders felt far more confident as he followed Hawke. He even managed to smile at Bethany when she touched his arm lightly and raised an eyebrow in mute query. They were still underground, and there was no telling how many more groups of smugglers might be down here - but he felt less useless now. He’d proven he could hold his own in a fight, and his skills had earned him a place with Hawke again.

He was wanted. No, he was _needed_ , as much as Fenris or Varric or Bethany, and he was here for what he could do, not just because he was Hawke’s friend and certainly not out of pity. He _belonged_ here still. 

He still had purpose.


	8. Chapter 8

Varric toed the crate and glanced up at Hawke.

“I don’t like this, Hawke. Lyrium? And in these quantities? That’s some heavy money talking there. This isn’t just some new upstart outfit trying to muscle in for a slice of the smuggling pie.”

Anders bent down and pulled a glass flask out from the bed of hay in which perhaps a couple hundred more were nestled. He swirled the glowing liquid slowly in the bottle. “How many crates were there again?” he asked quietly.

“Eight,” answered Bethany.

“That’s a lot of lyrium to flood the black market with,” said Hawke slowly. “Do we know where this lot was intended for?”

Varric shook his head. “Athenril said nothing about lyrium, only that some rival outfit was shifting a lot of stuff through the tunnels and taking out any of her people they came across.”

“There’s enough here to keep every Templar in the Gallows happy for months,” said Anders slowly.

“And not a drop of it intended for them, I’ll wager,” said Hawke.

“Bribes maybe?” suggested Bethany.

“That’s one hell of a bribe,” said Anders as he stared at the vial of lyrium. He thumbed the cork off the top of the flask and sniffed the liquid, then stiffened. “Bethany. Does this smell odd to you?”

Hawke shot him a keen look as Bethany took the flask and cautiously sniffed.

“You’re right,” she said slowly. “It’s... lyrium shouldn’t smell like that.”

“What does it smell of?” asked Hawke.

“It shouldn’t smell of anything at all,” said Anders as he took the flask back and sniffed it again. “Lyrium is ordinarily odourless, for the most part; if it’s particularly concentrated you might catch a slightly metallic smell about it. But this - it smells, I don’t know - almost _sweet_.”

“Like almond blossom,” said Bethany, nodding.

“Tainted?” suggested Hawke. A little distance away, Fenris straightened and stared over at them.

“Perhaps,” said Anders. “But with what - and why?” He frowned, and sniffed it again. There was something about the scent that was tantalisingly familiar; a bitter note he thought he almost recognised. He’d worked with a lot of herbs and reagents and he was sure there was something in the lyrium he knew, only what? He pondered. Drinking it would be a foolish idea, but maybe a taste - just touching his tongue to the liquid; not enough to harm but the taste could tell him much. He set the flask to his lips cautiously.

“Is that wise?” asked Bethany.

Anders lowered it and gave her a lopsided grin. “You and I are the only ones who know what lyrium tastes like, Bethany, and if there’s something wrong with it then it’s less likely to harm me than it will you. After all, I’m not a mage anymore. I’m not going to drink it - just taste it.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t risk it,” said Hawke.

Anders shrugged. “What’s the worst it could do?”

“Don’t...!” exclaimed Fenris and grabbed for Anders’ wrist as he was about to take a cautious sip of the lyrium, and suddenly Anders found himself with a mouthful of sickly-sweet liquid; a strong flavour of something somehow familiar and yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on where he’d tasted it before. The familiar metallic taste of lyrium was there but it was overlaid with the almost overwhelmingly cloying flavour with a bitter aftertaste that made him gag. He swallowed reflexively before he could choke or inhale the liquid. The flask dropped from his hand and smashed on the floor as Fenris dropped his wrist and stepped back, abashed.

Anders swallowed again and grimaced as he ran a hand through his hair. “Well, it’s definitely sweet,” he began, and then broke off. He could feel his lips tingling - his tongue, too.

“Anders?” asked Bethany anxiously. He held up a hand to silence her as he frowned slightly. The tingling sensation was spreading down the inside of his throat; it felt like a million tiny pinpricks, sharp and yet numbing. He coughed, and suddenly he couldn’t catch his breath.

They must have read the alarm in his eyes; suddenly Hawke was at his side as he staggered, helping him to sit down as Bethany unstoppered her water canteen and set it to his lips, urging him to swallow.

He was dimly aware of Fenris swearing as he slumped against Hawke. He blinked as he fought to draw breath. His chest was tingling now, and as he stared wildly around him it seemed he could see halos of light around the faces of his friends; bright gold around Varric, soft amber for Hawke, a soft bluish-silver around Bethany. As he glanced up at Fenris, the elf’s whole form seemed suffused with the silvery-green light of the Fade itself and for a moment he thought he could see wispy, shadowy forms that flitted about the elf. There was a soft susurrus of whispers all around them, just on the edge of hearing.

“ _Venhedis_ , mage, what have I done?” Fenris’ voice sounded almost... frightened. 

_Not a mage_ , he tried to reply, but he had no breath to speak with.

And then he was falling, falling down into darkness, and the whispers followed him.

  


***

  


“Anders? Anders, can you hear me?” Hawke’s voice. It sounded as though it were coming from far away, across a vast chasm. He was distantly aware of someone patting his cheek.

He felt cold; a bone-deep chill, that radiated through all his limbs. He could feel his heart racing, his blood singing in his veins with an almost electrifying thrum of life. He was shivering, a cold sweat upon his brow.

“We can’t stay here, Garrett. We’ve got to get him out of these tunnels.” _Bethany_. He tried to open his eye but it would no more respond than the blind one could.

“Damn you, Fenris, if you hadn’t grabbed his wrist like that...!” Hawke again, the anger in his voice overlying fear.

Fear for him? _Hawke_ , he tried to whisper, but his lips would no more co-operate than his eyes or his limbs had.

“I did not mean it to happen; I was only trying to stop him drinking it.” Fenris’ voice was quiet and subdued. “I meant no harm to him.”

“That would be a first,” muttered Hawke quietly, then louder, “Well, you managed the opposite. This isn’t a normal reaction to a non-mage drinking lyrium though. There was definitely something else in it.”

Anders grew slowly aware that he was lying on the ground, cradled in Hawke’s arms. Someone held one of his hands in theirs; from the size of the hand, he guessed it was Bethany.

“Hawke, we can’t leave all this lyrium here. Particularly knowing there’s something up with it. Wait here; I’ll go on ahead and get a hold of Aveline.” _Varric._

“Good idea,” agreed Hawke. “After seeing what that stuff’s done to Anders....”

What _had_ it done though? Anders wasn’t sure.

His skin was tingling all over his body - that same tingling feeling as earlier, like a thousand million tiny pinpricks or the lightest whisper of electricity dancing across every inch of his skin. It wasn’t painful - not exactly; it was distracting and odd, but the sensation was not entirely unpleasant. He could breath again, which was a small mercy at least.

He tried again, and this time he managed to open his eye a little. 

“Anders?” Hawke was leaning over him, that soft amber glow still suffusing his skin though not as strongly as before. As Anders stared up at him, Hawke’s expression softened from an anxious frown into a look of relief. “Thank the Maker - he’s awake again.”

Fenris appeared behind Hawke, staring over the rogue’s shoulder at Anders. He was still surrounded by the halo of silvery-green light; but as Anders watched, the glow slowly faded though he could still faintly hear something like the soft whispers of someone in another room, talking too quietly for him to make out the words.

“Anders?” prompted Hawke again, quietly.

“Help me to sit up,” Anders managed to rasp, his voice hoarse. Hawke helped him to sit upright, Bethany slipping an arm around his waist on his other side as she regarded him with worried eyes. “I’ll be OK,” he said quietly, as much to reassure himself as her.

“Mage, I -” began Fenris, then broke off when Anders fixed him with a stare. He regarded Fenris steadily until, discomforted, the elf began to fidget where he stood, dropping his gaze.

“Not a mage,” stated Anders flatly. “Not any more.” He struggled to get to his feet; Hawke got a hand beneath his elbow and with Bethany on his other side he was able to stand, a little unsteady but upright.

“How do you feel?” asked Bethany.

“I’ve felt better,” Anders admitted. “I’ll live.” Glancing away from the elf, he stared at the nearby crate of flasks. “I have no idea what that stuff is,” he said. “It’s lyrium, but there’s something else - I don’t know what. I wouldn’t recommend anyone else trying a taste though.”

“What did it do to you?” asked Hawke. Anders shrugged.

“I don’t know that either,” he admitted. “It hasn’t killed me, at least.” _Yet._ He darted a glance at Fenris, who seemed unable to meet his eyes. Anders frowned.

“Do you think you can make it back to Lowtown?” asked Hawke. 

“I think so,” answered Anders as Bethany handed him his staff. He leaned on it, gratefully; he felt weak, though his head was clearing slowly and he didn’t feel quite so chilled. “The Hanged Man?”

“Seems as good a place as any to wait for Aveline,” agreed Hawke.

  


***

  


Hawke slid a tankard of ale in front of Anders then sat next to him as Bethany sat next to Anders on the other side. Across the table, Fenris was staring moodily into his glass of wine. He’d been feeling remorse and worry ever since he’d inadvertently knocked Anders’ hand and forced him to accidentally swallow nearly the whole flask of tainted lyrium - the exact opposite of what he’d been trying to do. Anders seemed none the worse for his accidental dosing, but Fenris knew there were many poisons whose action was slow, the effects sometimes not seen for days afterwards - and Anders no longer had his healing magic to detect such poison.

Anders was staring dubiously at the ale; as Fenris watched, he gave a small shrug then lifted the tankard to his lips and took a swallow, grimacing a little at the sharp, sour taste.

“The wine is a little better,” rumbled Fenris as he pushed his glass towards the blond man. Anders lowered the tankard and stared at the glass, then up at Fenris.

Though they’d come to some accord and almost camaraderie in the past couple of months whilst Fenris schooled Anders in the use of his staff as a weapon, there was still a certain wariness and reserve about the former mage where Fenris was concerned. After so long at each other’s throats, the elf supposed it was only natural; it irked him though. Anders spoke little of mages’ rights these days - perhaps because he no longer considered himself one - and Fenris had found himself growing easier in Anders’ company, the blond man more tolerable and even - dare he say it - likeable. What had originated out of a perceived need had grown into something Fenris took some small pleasure in, and he had begun to look forward to their breakfasts together and their sparring sessions. 

He felt a flash of jealousy as Hawke rested an arm around Anders’ shoulders, and wondered at it. He scowled and pushed himself away from the table to go in search of another glass, ducking his head to hide his expression from Anders and Hawke.

He missed the keen look Bethany shot him as he turned away from the table.

Anders was oblivious, sipping slowly at the glass of wine. Fenris was right; the Nevarran red was rough and robust, but far preferable to the rat’s piss Corff called ale. It had been so long since he’d drunk ( _since Justice had allowed him to drink_ ) that he’d almost forgotten the taste.

A heavy tread on the stairs announced Aveline’s arrival; she was stripping off her gauntlets as she entered Varric’s rooms. “Varric, Hawke, Bethany, Fenris,” she greeted them breezily as she entered. “Anders, good to see you out of that clinic again,” she added as he lifted his head.

“Couldn’t hide away forever,” he shrugged with a small wry smile. He felt Hawke’s arm tighten around his shoulders in a brief, reassuring hug, and was glad of the other man’s presence. He felt Bethany lay her small hand over his, and smiled at her. “I’m OK,” he said quietly.

“Are you? Really?” she asked him, equally softly, her light brown eyes regarding him intently. “How are you feeling now? You gave us all rather a fright.”

“I’ll say,” snorted Hawke. “You just keeled over as though you were dead, barely breathing, lips blue and ice-cold to the touch. Nothing we tried seemed to bring you round; it must have been a good hour before you started shivering, and then a little while later you finally opened your eyes. Fenris was frantically pacing the whole time.”

“I was not frantic,” Fenris said pedantically as he returned with another wine glass and helped himself from the bottle on the table. “I... may have paced,” he conceded as he seated himself once more. “Aveline, have you any idea what was in those crates?”

“What can I get you, Red?” asked Varric, ever the courteous host.

“Nothing, thank you Varric - not when I’m on duty,” Aveline shook her head and sighed as she dropped into a seat. “Though Maker knows, I could use one.” She turned to Hawke. “The guard apothecary analysed that tainted lyrium you found. It’s like nothing he’d ever seen before. In addition to lyrium, he found orichalcum - and not the usual sort, either; it was crystalline orichalcum.”

“Crystal-” Anders broke off with a small frown. “That would explain the bitter aftertaste - and the sweetness; you’d have to add something to overcome the taste of the orichalcum. There was something else in it though - something I almost recognised.”

“He said there was extract of dark embrium and felandaris in it as well, as best he could tell,” replied Aveline.

“The embrium would explain the smell,” said Bethany. Anders nodded.

“I’ve used embrium often before. Felandaris though... that’s not a herb I’ve ever used. It has no use I know of for healing. It grows wherever the Veil is thin; it’s most commonly used as a poison.” He frowned, lost in thought for a moment. “Did your apothecary have any idea what the tainted lyrium was supposed to do?”

“None whatsoever,” shrugged Aveline. “I was hoping you might have more idea than me, Anders.”

Anders shrugged. “Poisons were never my forte,” he replied. “I was more concerned with healing than poisoning; we covered them only briefly when learning how to brew antidotes. Though there may be something in the alchemy text Varric gave me.” He pondered a moment. “Lyrium’s poisonous enough unless you’re a mage - or a Templar,” he added with a sour look. “So it seems safe to discount the lyrium as being part of the poison. I’d guess the orichalcum and felandaris are the poison, and the embrium’s there mostly to disguise the taste of the orichalcum - felandaris is pretty much tasteless.”

“Someone trying to poison the Templars?” guessed Bethany. “The Gallows would have their own, Chantry-approved supply of lyrium, they wouldn’t need the services of smugglers.”

“More luck to them,” grunted Anders as he downed his wine. He couldn’t find it in himself to particularly care about the fate of Templars drinking poisoned lyrium. He was aware of Fenris’ eyes on him but chose to ignore the elf as he reached for the bottle and poured himself another glass.

“So what would the poison do, exactly?” asked Hawke.

“No idea; why don’t we find a handy Templar and find out?” replied Anders diffidently with an unpleasant grin.

“Anders,” said Bethany quietly. “You drank a flask of it.”

“Yes, and whose fault was that?” drawled Anders as he leaned back in his chair and regarded Fenris. The elf ducked his head, a slow flush creeping across his face and reddening the tips of his ears. Anders blinked. He had been expecting Fenris to respond with defensive anger as he normally would, not retreat meekly like this. Had things changed so much between them?

“You drank a flask?” said Aveline, regarding him incredulously.

“Not intentionally,” replied Anders. “I don’t seem to have come to any harm though, fortunately.”

“Maybe it has a different effect on mages?” suggested Hawke.

“Not a mage,” responded Anders flatly.

“But you _were_ ,” pressed Hawke.

“Whatever I was, I’m not any more!” snapped Anders, slapping his hand hard on the table in anger before pushing himself to his feet. “I’m going back to the clinic; I’ve work to do,” he said coldly and turned away, reaching for his staff.

“I’ll come with you,” said Fenris, rising to his feet as he tossed back the last of his wine.

“I don’t need an escort,” snapped Anders angrily. “I think I’ve already proven I can look after myself. That _was_ the point of the lessons, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” nodded Fenris. “Mage, I-”

“ _Stop calling me that!!_ ” screamed Anders.

In the stunned silence that followed his outburst, he stared at them. Hawke had frozen in the act of rising, a surprised look on his face. Aveline looked shocked. Varric’s eyes held only a warm sympathy, whilst Fenris....

Fenris looked guilt-struck and stunned, his green eyes wide as he stared at Anders. The blond Warden found himself staring at the elf, and it was with difficulty he managed to wrench his gaze away, glancing instead at Bethany.

Her expression of open sympathy and pity was too much for him. He fled.


	9. Chapter 9

He felt too angry to even see straight, but his feet found their way back to Darktown almost by instinct. He stomped angrily down the stairs towards the rickety elevator that would lower him to the clinic level. He stood and fumed through the slow passage downwards as the wooden platform swayed slightly, his grip on the haft of his staff white-knuckled as he glowered at nothing. The two other occupants of the lift eyed him warily and shuffled as far away from him as the small wooden platform would allow as he muttered angrily to himself. He barely waited for it to settle at the bottom of the shaft before leaping off and striding through the fetid-smelling passages of the subterranean shanty town.

He heard someone call out his name, but he strode on, ignoring them. He was in no mood to talk to anyone right now. All the anger and frustration he’d kept bottled up inside since losing his magic had finally boiled over, and he was in a towering fury at the unfairness of it all.

Fenris’ repeated use of the word “mage” nearly every time he addressed Anders without thinking was like a knife to his gut, twisting in the festering wound that was his pain over losing such a central, defining part of himself - a constant reminder of what he was no longer. He had been hated and reviled from childhood for the accident of birth that made him a mage, but though he had always bitterly resented his treatment at the hands of others and suffered for what he was, he had never once thought of magic as a curse as some mages did. 

Some might have been glad to have such a burden lifted from them without the deadening effect of Tranquility, but Anders was not such a one. Magic was a gift; he had revelled in it, the exhilarating feeling of mana flowing through his veins like quicksilver, an electrifying sensation through his body, pinpricking across his skin as lightning danced across his fingers or mana pooled in his hands like cool smoke, quiescent and awaiting his will - to be channelled into healing or shaped into fire, ice, any number of things he so wished, raw power tamed to his thoughts, words, gestures. It had filled him; he lived and breathed it like the air itself. He had never been without the touch of healing spirits about him, drawn to his magic.

And now it was gone, along with his eye; an empty void within him that could not be filled with staff-fighting lessons or alchemy, glasses of wine or the touch of friends around a table. Camaraderie of his companions could not compensate for the loss of Justice within, ripped away from him. None of them could understand the way he felt only half-alive inside. He had earned anew the right to fight alongside Hawke and the others, had proven himself still a capable companion with value and skills - but that could not fill the cold, silent space inside where once certainty and life had resided.

He had lost an eye along with his magic and Justice - and he would have gladly given his other eye to have his magic back, to hear Justice’s voice once more or feel the spirit’s fierce determination driving him again. He had a purpose again with Hawke, but no direction.

And that damnable elf had thrown it in his face with that one word that encompassed all that he was not! How _dare_ he? Anders had been slowly coming to tolerate, maybe even tentatively like Fenris now they no longer seemed to be at each other’s throats all the time. He’d even come to look forward to the elf’s arrival at the clinic each morning. He’d been slowly coming to trust him - and then Fenris had to go and call him _that_ and remind him once more of all he had lost with but one word. How dare he? How _dare_ he?

He dashed away the angry tears that threatened to blur his vision as he stomped furiously through the ever-present muck and dirt towards his clinic, and nearly knocked over someone standing in front of the clinic doors. He jerked his head up with a furious scowl; it took a moment for the flaming sword insignia on the front of the armed man’s steel chestplate to register.

“Here he is - it’s the apostate!” exclaimed the templar as he reached to grasp Anders’ arm.

Once, the sight of four templars lying in wait for him outside his clinic would have had him fleeing in fear; but in his fury, Anders only saw four handy targets to take his rage out on and no reason to hold back. What was the threat of Tranquility to him now? He could have laughed. Instead, he wrenched his arm out of the startled templar’s grasp and spun his staff forward, brandishing it in front of him.

“Come on then!” he cried. “I’m ready for you!”

One of the templars gestured, and Anders recognised the attempt to cast a Smite. He _did_ laugh then, the templars exchanging worried glances as it had no effect. He launched himself at the nearest templar with a snarl.

The templars were slow; they had expected a frightened mage, easily overpowered with a Smite - not a furious one-eyed warrior wielding a long polearm who obviously knew what he was doing. As the first templar fell, one of the templars frantically cast another Smite, and another - none of them having any effect as the enraged blond man laid into the other two templars. First one, and then the other fell in a spray of blood that drenched the front of Anders’ gambeson and splashed across his face, lending his visage an almost demonic air as he whirled to face the last templar with a howl of rage.

The last templar was hastily pouring something from a small green bottle on the blade of his sword, and as Anders lunged towards him the templar managed to bring his blade up beneath Anders’ swing to slice into the blond man’s shoulder. Anders growled as he felt the blade bite into his flesh; the cut was shallow, but it stang. Magebane, he guessed.

The templar evidently had expected the magebane to drop Anders where he stood. Instead, it only served to enrage him still further; with an inhuman howl of fury he laid into the last templar until finally he was the only one still breathing. He stood there, panting raggedly and covered in blood as he cast around for another enemy to strike down, but he was the only one still living. He planted the blade of his staff into the dirt and leaned on it, feeling the adrenaline slowly drain from his body, leaving him feeling cold and sick to his stomach as he stared at the carnage his fury had wrought. 

He shuddered and staggered away from the dismembered bodies in steel plate and red robes, sodden in blood, and fell heavily against the wall before spewing up the wine he had drunk earlier.

After a few minutes in which he fought to quell his rebellious stomach and bring his breathing back to something approaching normal, he managed to push himself upright and stagger the few feet to the clinic doors. Unlocking them, he thrust his staff inside then staggered over to the nearest body. Gritting his teeth, he dragged the bloody corpse over to the nearest pit shaft and hurled it over before going back for another. 

By the time he’d managed to dispose of the bodies of all four templars and assorted dismembered limbs, he was aware of some of the Darktown denizens creeping back slowly, regarding him from the shadows warily as he staggered back towards the clinic doors.

“Healer? You alright?”

Anders squinted at the figure that emerged from the shadows; an elf. 

“Tomwise?” he gasped raggedly.

“Creators, you look like shit, Anders,” the elf said as he drew closer. “Come back to my place, let me fix you up.”

“No, I can’t, I -” Anders broke off, a thought occurring to him. “Tomwise... you deal in poisons, right? What can you tell me of felandaris?”

Tomwise blinked. “Now what in the Dread Wolf’s name would a healer be wanting with felandaris?” He shook his head. “You come with me; we’ll get you cleaned and fixed up, and you can tell me why you want to know about felandaris.”

Anders thought for a moment, then nodded. he reached for his staff then shut and locked the clinic door and allowed the poison-maker to lead him back to his own ramshackle home.

 

***

Anders sat at the wooden table and held still as Tomwise cleaned the sword cut before dressing it with an elfroot poultice then bandaging it. Anders’ hair was still damp, but at least it was clean now after a thorough wash and scrub. He tested his range of movement as Tomwise tidied his healing kit away; it was serviceable, and Tomwise had done a better job than Anders himself could have done alone.

“I’m guessing it’ll take a while for the magebane to wear off so you can heal yourself,” observed Tomwise as he lifted a small pot of stew off the fire and set it to one side before putting a kettle of water on to boil. The elf served a portion of stew into a wooden bowl then set it before Anders. “Eat up; Creators know, you look like you need it.”

Anders shrugged his shoulders then winced as the movement pulled at the cut. “Magebane has no effect on me any more,” he remarked as he stirred his spoon through the stew.

“Useful,” remarked Tomwise. “Why’s that then?”

“Not a mage anymore,” said Anders before he began to eat. There was something ironically amusing about being able to trust a poisoner’s food; Tomwise’s cooking was probably the most edible sustenance in Darktown.

“Not a...!” Tomwise’s eyes widened, and then he slowly nodded understanding. “I see. That explains what I’ve been hearing about the clinic. But... you’re not Tranquil?”

“Not in the usual sense, no,” answered Anders. “I may as well be though.” Maybe it would hurt less if he were. Anders was beginning to understand better now the part of the Rite that stripped the emotions of the Tranquil away at the same time as severing their connection to the Fade. Not that he’d want such a fate for himself; he would sooner die than submit to that kind of half-life.

 _But was this half-dead existence, devoid of magic, really any better?_ He wrenched his thoughts away from such dark places. No. He was still alive, still breathing, capable of feeling, determining his existence for himself, painful though it might be. He was still of use, he still had valuable skills, he could still help and heal people.

“Of course you can,” remarked Tomwise, and Anders coloured, not having realised he’d been muttering quietly aloud to himself. He glanced up at the elf, embarrassed, but the elf waved him off. “Ach, habit of those who live alone; I do it meself all the time,” he smiled. “You should hear some of the arguments I have with meself when I spill or break something.” He turned and started to brew two mugs of tea as the water boiled. “So, felandaris. What were you wantin’ to know about it?”

Anders told him of the tainted lyrium between mouthfuls of stew, and Tomwise listened carefully as he set a mug of tea before Anders and sipped at his own. Anders was careful not to mention his own accidental ingestion of the poison. As Anders finally pushed the empty bowl away and took up his own mug, the elven poisoner nodded slowly.

“I’d say whoever brewed that was definitely aiming it at templars,” he said slowly. “It’d make them very sick; likely strip 'em of their abilities, I don’t doubt, and put 'em out of action for a long time. The effects would linger long afterwards as well; the orichalcum would bind to the lyrium already in their system and to whatever lyrium they took after it - short of going off the lyrium altogether, they’d have to wait a month or more for it to clear out of their system - and in the meantime they’d be sick as a dog and they certainly wouldn’t be Smitin’ anyone.”

“And you can’t just stop taking lyrium,” nodded Anders.

“It’s a perfect way of putting a whole Chantry of templars out of action for a month,” agreed Tomwise. “Assuming you can sneak it into the Chantry in the first place. Switch their regular lyrium for this stuff and in twenty-four hours you won’t have a single templar capable of stirring from his bed for puking. And the orichalcum with the lyrium would pass as normal and untainted; a Purify would have no effect on it - unlike if you tried sneaking anything into the templar’s food. Probably a lot easier as well.”

Anders nodded. “Intercept a normal lyrium delivery, switch the batches - and the templars will happily go off and poison themselves. They wouldn't notice the smell until they were drinking it - by which point it would be too late, and it would take too long to organise another shipment of lyrium in time before they started going into withdrawal.” He tapped his lip thoughtfully. “Perfect way to stage the most effective Circle uprising in history and break every mage in the Gallows out.” He had to admire the beauty of the plan. If he’d been more attentive to the poisons and antidotes part of his training he might even have thought of it himself.

He glanced up at Tomwise. “What would it do to a normal person - one not habituated to lyrium as the templars are, but not a mage either?”

“Probably kill ‘em on the spot,” shrugged Tomwise. “Lyrium’s pretty toxic on its own, but add it to the felandaris and it’d be a very swift death. If a rather expensive one,” he added. 

Anders blinked. He felt like shit still, but he was certainly still alive. “What would it do to a mage?” he asked slowly.

“Haven’t a clue, I’m afraid,” shrugged Tomwise. “My wares and expertise are usually employed against rather more... mundane targets. You’d probably have to ask a Tevinter poisoner; I’m sure the Magisters are probably busy merrily poisoning each other all the time. I understand Tevinter politics is something of a cut-throat business.”

Anders thought of Fenris then dismissed the notion of asking the white-haired elf. Fenris was a warrior who believed in facing his enemies head-on with his blade, not poisoning them; and besides, if the elf had known anything about such poisons then surely he would have spoken up sooner.

Anders got to his feet and reached for his shirt and gambeson. “Thank you for your help and your time, Tomwise,” he said.

“Any time, healer,” smiled Tomwise. “Oh, do let me know if you come up with anything particularly interesting in your alchemy experiments - I’m always on the look-out for interesting new reagents.” He smiled.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” nodded Anders as he took his leave and headed back towards his clinic.


	10. Chapter 10

Anders got back to the clinic to find Hawke and Bethany waiting by the locked doors. Hawke was crouched down by the large patch of blood that had soaked into the dirt; it was cold, but still damp judging by the rust-coloured smears on Hawke’s fingers as he probed the dirt with a grave expression on his face. 

Bethany spotted him first and tapped her brother on the shoulder. “Garrett!” she exclaimed. He glanced up at her then followed her gaze; as his eyes lit on Anders he sprang to his feet, a relieved grin spreading across his face. 

“Anders!” he said as he closed the distance between them in a few long strides. For a heart-stopping moment Anders thought the rogue was going to hug him, but Hawke stopped at arm’s-length and clasped Anders’ shoulders with a hearty slap. “We were so worried about you! You ran off so quickly, and then Varric got word that templars had been seen in Darktown. When we found the blood and no sign of you, I thought -”

He broke off as Anders involuntarily winced. “Anders? Are you alright?” the rogue asked, and then finally he noticed the state of Anders’ gambeson. The front was still soaked with blood, drying now, a tear in the shoulder through which he could make out the white gleam of a bandage. “Maker, you’re hurt! What happened?”

“Garrett, let him unlock the doors and we can talk about this inside?” suggested Bethany, rolling her eyes at her brother.

Thus rebuked, Hawke stepped away from Anders as he moved to the doors. Unlocking them, he made his way inside and they followed him in, Bethany quietly closing the door behind her.

“Do you...” she began. Anders glanced back at her as he stood his staff in the corner by his preparation bench and raised an eyebrow. “The lanterns... I can light them for you?” she suggested awkwardly.

His expression blanked for a moment, then he shook his head. “No. Leave them unlit,” he answered tonelessly as he turned back to the preparation bench, pinching the bridge of his nose with a pained look for a moment before turning to his shelves of herbs. He set out the makings for a herbal tisane then stirred up the embers of the fire in the hearth, adding pieces of wood until they caught with a flare of bright flame. He studied the rekindled fire for a moment then set a pot of water over the fire to boil before standing and stripping off the quilted and studded gambeson. He fingered the tear in the shoulder before laying it aside then stripping off the bloodsoaked shirt he’d worn underneath.

“Please tell me not all that blood is yours?” exclaimed Hawke as he stared at the dark red stains that stood out vivid against the worn linen, grey from too much washing.

Anders brushed the bandage over his left shoulder with his fingertips. “No, this is the only place they caught me. It’s not deep; mostly just annoying,” he shrugged. He tossed the shirt over into the laundry basket that was already half-full with dirty bed linen. He disappeared behind a curtain hanging over a small alcove then reappeared, pulling on a clean shirt.

“What happened?” asked Hawke as Anders poked the fire with a stick then moved the pot of boiling water off the flames and added a handful of herbs to the water.

“Templars,” answered Anders with a shrug. “They were waiting for me. They were rather surprised a Smite was ineffective against me. One of them thought to try magebane. It didn’t work either.” He grinned mirthlessly. “Well... it pissed me off. Which probably wasn’t the effect they were hoping for.”

“You took them all out by yourself?” exclaimed Bethany. Anders scowled.

“You needn’t sound so surprised,” he muttered. “I _have_ been practicing and sparring with Fenris daily for a couple of months. You already saw earlier I can handle myself just fine in a fight.”

“I didn’t mean -” began Bethany; Anders glanced up at her and relented with a small sigh.

“I’m sorry; I’m tired, my shoulder hurts, my head’s throbbing and I’m queasy and ratty. I’m not very good company right now.” He stirred the brewing tea and sniffed the steam, then moved over to his racks of herbs and selected a bundle of elfroot. Picking out a tuber, he began to grate it into a bowl.

“Where did you go afterwards?” asked Hawke.

“I dealt with the bodies, then I went to talk to Tomwise. I figured who better to ask about a poison than a poisoner.” He tipped the grated elfroot into the brew and stirred it.

“And?” asked Hawke, lifting an eyebrow. Anders sat back on his heels and stared at the pot, not looking up.

“It seems someone wants to put the templars out of action. Tomwise was pretty certain it was tailored specifically to make a templar sick, though he admitted he had no idea what would happen to a mage who drank it.” 

“And a non-mage who’s not a templar?” prompted Hawke slowly.

“See, that’s where it gets interesting,” remarked Anders as he straightened, lifting the pot and carrying it over to the preparation bench. “That amount of lyrium was enough to kill a man by itself; add the felandaris, and by rights I should have dropped dead on the spot.” His hands trembled slightly; setting the pot hastily down on a cast iron trivet, he pressed his hands flat on the bench surface to still the shaking. “I shouldn’t be breathing right now.”

“But... you’re not a....” began Hawke.

“I. _KNOW!!_ ” screamed Anders as he whirled round and glared at Hawke, who shut his mouth with an audible snap and had the grace to look chagrined.

“Believe me, I know,” repeated Anders quietly. “I am aware of it. Not a moment goes by that I don’t. It’s like losing a hand; it cripples you. You’re constantly aware of it, but most of all when you reach for something _and there’s nothing there_. Nothing to reach with. Gone.”

Bethany’s hands flew to her mouth and she made a small, horrified, choking sound. Anders glanced to her, and he nodded. “You can imagine it, can’t you?” he said quietly. She slowly nodded, her eyes misting.

“Carver spiked my stew with magebane once. It was horrible,” she said quietly.

“Dad was furious,” said Hawke quietly. “Carver had to take all his meals standing up for a week afterwards.”

Anders was still staring at Bethany. “Remember how that felt. Now imagine feeling like that all the time.”

“How can you bear it?” she cried. He stared at her, and his shoulders slumped.

“I don’t know,” he answered in a small voice, looking lost and troubled. “I’m not sure I -”

What he was about to say was lost as the double doors of the clinic were suddenly flung open and Fenris burst in. “Hawke! the mage, where -”

Anders cleared his throat and wiped a hand over his face. “The mage is fine,” he called out, gesturing to Bethany. “The _former_ mage is tired and crabby and hopes you’re going to pay to fix those doors you just wrecked.” He turned around and studiously ignored them all as he returned to his potion, carefully straining the liquid into a cup.

“Way to go, Fenris,” muttered Hawke. 

“I... apologise,” said Fenris stiffly as he approached. Anders’ hands stilled on the cup, and then he laughed.

“I must be hallucinating from the magebane; I thought I heard Fenris apologise to me,” he mused. Hawke sighed.

“Anders,” he shook his head.

Anders turned, the cup cradled in his hands, steam wafting up from the hot liquid. “I can’t figure you out,” he said, his one eye boring into the white-haired elf. “I’ve known you perhaps a year now, and in all that time all you’ve ever done is carp and snipe at me every time I open my mouth - and often before I can even speak. Then I step in front of a crossbow bolt - aimed for you, I might add - and nearly die, I lose my eye and my magic - and suddenly you can tolerate my presence? Not only that, but you take it upon yourself to teach me how to wield my staff.” He took a step towards Fenris, then another. “Yet you still insist on calling me something I am not, reminding me of what I’ve lost.” His face twisted into a look of distress. “What did I ever do to you? Why must you keep tormenting me?” he whispered. “I thought perhaps we were becoming friends, and then you do this. Why do you hate me so?”

They stood perhaps a footstep apart, the elf staring up at Anders. This close, he could see the lines of care and exhaustion around the shadowed eye; he could see from the slightly stiff way Anders held himself as he clutched the cup that he was in pain. He was overwrought, his emotions in turmoil, perhaps a hair away from hysteria.

“I do not hate you,” Fenris rumbled quietly. 

“Then why?” whispered Anders.

“Because he’s an idiot? Force of habit?” suggested Hawke cheerily. Fenris turned and glared at him; the rogue grinned at him unrepentantly. 

“Force of habit, perhaps,” allowed the elf as he inclined his head, conceding the point. “I will try harder to overcome it.”

“I’d appreciate that,” said Anders with a weary sigh as he turned away. He made his way over to the nearest cot and sat on the edge before sipping slowly.

“Right, glad we’ve got that out of the way!” announced Hawke with a bright yet false grin. “So, about this tainted lyrium that should have killed Anders on the spot but didn’t, for no apparent reason any of us can fathom....”

Fenris blinked. “Killed...?” He turned and stared at Anders as though he expected the former Warden to just keel over dead on the spot.

“You’ll notice I’m still very much in the land of the living,” Anders pointed out the obvious before taking another sip of his tea. “No thanks to you - again. I feel like nug shit, but at least I’m still alive to do so which has to be better than the alternative. No,” he added, lifting one hand to forestall Fenris, “I have no idea why either.”

Bethany walked over to the cot and sat down next to Anders.

“How _are_ you feeling now?” she asked him gently.

“A little better,” replied Anders. “The tea is helping to settle my stomach, and my head’s not throbbing quite so much as it was earlier.”

“Magebane gave me a splitting headache too,” she sympathised.

Hawke was frowning at Anders. “This is probably a daft question, but are you _sure_ you’re not still a mage?”

Anders gave him a flat stare over the rim of his cup. “I’m sorry, was I talking to myself earlier? Were you not listening when I said I can’t feel my magic? Because I could have sworn you were standing not five feet away from me at the time.”

Hawke shook his head. “I heard you, but this makes no sense. The tainted lyrium should have killed you - but you’re still alive. The magebane should have had no effect on you - but you’re queasy and your head hurts. Anders, your body is behaving exactly as it would have before you lost your eye.” Hawke shook his head in exasperated confusion. “Anders, to all appearances you appear to still be a mage.” 

Anders cradled his empty cup in his hands as he sat in silence for long minutes, taking that in. Finally he lifted his head to stare at Hawke, his one eye red-rimmed and glistening wetly. “Then why can’t I feel my magic?” he whispered hoarsely. “Why can’t I hear Justice any more?” 

The cup fell to the floor as he wrapped his arms around his body and began to weep. Each ragged sob shook his slender body as he finally let himself go. 

Bethany glanced up at her brother hopelessly as she gently rubbed Anders’ back in comforting circles. Anders leaned into her touch and she wrapped her arms around him as he cried.

Hawke moved over to the cot and gingerly sat down on Anders’ other side, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder, trying to avoid the white bandages. Fenris remained where he was, shifting his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably.

The room was silent save for the sounds of Anders’ sobbing and grief.


	11. Chapter 11

Hawke, Fenris and Bethany regarded each other sombrely.

Anders had wept until finally, exhausted, he had passed out asleep, slumping against Bethany. Hawke had carefully unbuckled Anders’ boots and then, between them, he and Fenris had gently laid out the unconscious man upon the cot. Bethany had gathered up several blankets to drape over him; he hadn’t stirred as she covered him and tucked the blankets in around him.

Now she sat beside him, one hand idly carding through the dark blond hair as Anders slept and they debated what to do next.

“Someone ought to tell Aveline,” said Hawke. Fenris and Bethany regarded him silently; after a moment, he gave an exasperated sigh and flung up his hands. “Right, fine, yes, _I’ll_ have to tell Aveline,” he conceded. “But what am I going to tell her? ‘Sorry, Aveline, some unknown person or group with a lot of money has been trying to smuggle tainted lyrium into the city to poison all the templars and facilitate a mass break-out of all the mages in the Gallows but we have no idea who’? That’s going to go down well, I can tell you.”

Fenris cleared his throat. “We ought to inform the Knight-Commander; the templars are her jurisdiction.”

“Won’t that just make her clamp down on the mages even harder?” asked Bethany. 

“We cannot risk every mage in the Gallows being set free,” said Fenris. “I cannot allow that. It would be a disaster waiting to happen.” He shook his head firmly.

“They’re _people_ , Fenris, not monsters!” exclaimed Bethany.

“Pfaugh, you know as well as I do that it only takes a few succumbing to demonic temptation and we’ll have an epidemic of abominations on our hands tearing up the streets; mages are weak.” Fenris shook his head with an expression of disgust. “They will not be able to handle the stress of being free, and it is the innocent people of the city who will suffer - as always.”

“You seem to be forgetting I’m a mage, Fenris,” exclaimed Bethany coldly. “Are you saying _I_ am weak? Do you think I’m a danger to the city as well? Maybe you’d like to lock _me_ up in the Gallows too?”

“Now, now, no-one is locking _anyone_ up in the Gallows!” interjected Hawke, rising to stand between them.

“ _Venhedis_ , you’re as bad as _him_!” growled Fenris surlily, jerking his chin at the sleeping Anders.

“ _He_ has a name - and he’s saved your life more times than I bet you can count!” retorted Bethany, her hand stilling in Anders’ hair as she glared at the elf who bristled.

“Bethany, keep your voice down or you’ll wake Anders,” said Hawke quietly. “Same goes for you too, Fenris. I can’t believe this - Anders is out for the count yet I _still_ have to listen to this same -”

“Garrett, don’t,” said Bethany in a low voice. “Don’t you dare call this bullshit.”

Hawke sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Bethy, please, I don’t think the two of you fighting about this is going to do anyone any good right now. Much though I hate to admit it, he does have a valid point - most of the mages in the Gallows won’t have known anything but the Circle all their lives. They’d have no idea how to survive as apostates. Set the whole lot of them loose on the city at once and it _would_ be a disaster. This isn’t about mage rights, Beth - it’s about what’s best and safest for everyone. I agree there’s a lot wrong with the Circle - but this isn’t the right way to go about fixing it.”

“I can’t believe you’re going to side with the templars,” Bethany shook her head, and then stilled as Anders twitched. She glanced down at the sleeping man as his brow furrowed, and then he whimpered faintly.

“He is... prone to nightmares,” said Fenris quietly. “This talk of templars perhaps is precipitating one.” As he spoke, Anders jerked and cried out in his sleep.

Bethany gently ran her hand through Anders’ hair then lightly stroked his cheek; his eye still closed, he turned his face blindly to nestle his cheek against her palm with a faint, plaintive whimper.

As Fenris watched her gently soothe Anders back to peaceful sleep again, he felt an irrational stab of jealousy. He remembered vividly the feel of Anders’ hair beneath his hand, the soft prickle of golden stubble against his palm, the sleeping man’s breath warm against his palm as Anders turned his head trustingly into his touch. Frowning at his own reaction, he clenched his fists and glanced away.

Bethany was too intent on calming Anders to notice, but Hawke glanced from Anders to the elf with a thoughtful look.

“We should leave Anders to sleep and talk elsewhere so we don’t disturb him,” said Hawke quietly.

“I don’t think we should leave him to wake alone,” argued Bethany. “Not after the state he was in.”

“I will not leave him,” said Fenris firmly. “Your sister is right.”

“Well, at least we can agree on one thing,” retorted Bethany stiffly.

“Beth,” said Hawke warningly. She sniffed but held her tongue.

Fenris rose to his feet and paced restlessly. “What are we to do then?” he asked, quieter. “We cannot allow these smugglers to make further attempts to bring this tainted lyrium into the city. You say we cannot go to the Knight-Commander with this matter. What, then, is to be done?”

“We need to talk to Varric, get him to sniff around, see what he can find out about this smuggling outfit and their backers,” said Hawke. “I’ll suggest to Aveline that she step up patrols in the area, and I guess that means we’ll be spending a lot of time in the tunnels too.”

“Hawke, what are we going to do about Anders?” asked Bethany.

“Do? Beth, I’m not entirely sure there’s anything we, or anyone else, _can_ do about him. Most people don’t survive a crossbow bolt through the eye, as a rule; that he’s still alive at all is a miracle. The only people who might have some idea about what happens to mages with traumatic head injuries are either the Circle or in Tevinter.” Hawke shook his head with a sigh. “I’m not about to go marching into the Gallows with him, and Tevinter is out of the question.”

“Do you think it’s possible he might regain his magic in time?” she mused.

“Beth, I haven’t a clue. I’m not a mage. If Anders himself doesn’t know then what chance do I have of knowing?” He glanced at Fenris.

“I do not know if such a thing is possible,” the elf rumbled quietly. “I have never known a mage to suffer their connection to the Fade to be severed and yet not be made Tranquil by the experience. This is beyond my limited understanding of such things.”

Hawke shook his head. “I think it’s beyond all of us. I guess whatever is going on inside Anders, we can only wait and see what happens and try to be there for him.”

***

Fenris had managed to wedge the doors closed and barred them for the time being. He took up a position near the door to stand first watch; although it was unlikely any Darktown denizen would try to break into the healer’s clinic, another templar patrol might come sniffing when the first failed to return.

Bethany had stretched out on the cot nearest to Anders in case he stirred again; Hawke had sat up for a while, tending the fire whilst lost in his own thoughts, before stretching out on another cot. He woke when Fenris lightly patted his shoulder, and he stood second watch whilst Fenris got some sleep. He was pondering waking Bethany to take third watch when Anders grew restless, tossing and turning in his sleep. The blond man cried out fitfully, and Hawke was about to make his way over towards him when he saw Fenris sit up and glance over at Anders before rising from the cot and pad over towards the blond man on silent feet.

Fenris crouched down beside Anders’ cot; he reached out a hand to gently stroke his fingers through Anders’ hair until he grew quiet once more. Fenris remained beside Anders for some time afterwards, silently stroking the dark gold hair, until he finally glanced up and saw Hawke watching. He rose to his feet and walked towards Hawke.

“You will say nothing of this to him,” the elf warned Hawke darkly. He moved past Hawke and returned to his cot, stretching out upon it and closing his eyes.

Hawke sat in the darkness, staring at Anders’ face as he slept, and pondered.


	12. Chapter 12

Anders woke up disoriented and confused. He lay blinking up at the rough wooden beams of the ceiling; it took a moment or two to work out he must have fallen asleep upon one of the cots in the clinic instead of making it to his own bed in the little alcove. He could smell bacon and wondered who down here in Darktown could have afforded such a rare treat. Meat was expensive and most of Darktown’s denizens did without. His mouth was watering. It seemed most unfair to be woken by the tantalising smell of a treat he could never afford; these days, the only time he got to eat bacon was when Varric insisted on pushing breakfast on him. Fenris usually preferred lighter fare such as bread and fruit, or porridge on colder days. 

A snore to his left broke into his reverie; rolling his head upon the thin pillow, his eyes fell upon Hawke, sprawled on his stomach on a nearby cot, dead to the world and snoring peacefully. As Anders slowly sat up, the events of last night slowly came back to him. He swung his legs over the side of the cot onto the floor, drew a deep breath, and glanced around.

Bethany was crouched over a cooking pot set over the hearth fire, stirring something that bubbled before she turned to a small iron skillet ( _did he own a skillet? He didn’t remember_ ) and neatly flipping over slices of frying bacon. He blinked and rubbed his eye, then ran a hand through his dishevelled hair.

“Ah, you’re awake!” said Bethany brightly as she lifted her head and noticed Anders staring around himself. His eye blearily focused on her as he turned.

“For certain values of,” he replied, getting to his feet then stretching. His spine made a series of alarming popping noises as he arched backwards then twisted to one side to try and unkink himself. Those cot beds were only barely adequate for his patients; they were too short for him and he always woke with a crick in his neck and a niggling ache in his back whenever he slept on one. He pressed his hands against the small of his back then grimaced as he remembered he couldn’t even relieve that small discomfort the way he used to. He wondered if he would ever get used to that - reaching for something that wasn’t there.

“Here, let me,” said Bethany as she rose to her feet, wiping her hands on a rag. “I may not be brilliant at healing but I’m at least good for that.”

Anders sighed then inclined his head as she stepped behind him. Her small hands were warm and gentle through the worn linen of his shirt, and he groaned with relief as the small wave of healing magic dissipated the ache of tired muscles.

As he straightened, he became aware that Fenris had sat up and was staring at them intently, his expression unreadable. Anders frowned slightly as Fenris’ expression changed; the elf glowered at him and turned away hastily. 

“Better?” asked Bethany.

“Much, thanks,” nodded Anders as he turned, dismissing the elf’s baffling behaviour. He followed Bethany back towards the hearth. “Ah, Bethany,” he said quietly. “About last night....”

She glanced back at him as she shifted the pot away from the flames, and smiled sympathetically. “You were upset. You have every right to be; I can only barely imagine what you must be going through right now. I’m only surprised it didn’t happen sooner, to be honest.”

Anders blinked and felt his face grow hot. “Has everyone been waiting for me to go to pieces then?” he asked, his voice a little sharp and brittle though he kept it low.

She straightened, the smile gone. “No, Anders. We’ve just been worried for you. It’s what friends do.”

Anders swallowed and glanced to one side. “I’d, ah, appreciate it if we just kept it between us. Really, I’d rather pretend it didn’t happen at all, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Is that really healthy?” she asked him gently. He tried to smile.

“Probably not,” he admitted with a note of false bravado. “But it makes me more comfortable.”

“I’ll speak to Garrett,” said Bethany. “I’m sure Fenris will say nothing.”

Anders nodded, not looking at her as he twisted his fingers together. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then drew a deep breath. “I’m, I... I’ll just go wash and change,” he said haltingly as he turned away. 

He was aware of Hawke’s watchful eyes as he ducked into his little alcove and let the curtain fall closed behind him. He exhaled slowly. The curtain only really gave an illusion of privacy, but this small room was, at least, his own personal space.

He stripped off his shirt then washed with cold water, shivering a little, his mind replaying the events and conversation of the previous evening as water ran down his back in small rivulets from his wet hair.

_“Are you **sure** you’re not still a mage?”_

_“Anders, to all appearances you appear to still be a mage.”_

“Then why can’t I feel my magic?” he whispered to himself. He held his hand out, palm uppermost, and frowned as he tried to reach inside for that place that once was quicksilver and light but now felt so cold, empty, dark. He hunted for anything, the smallest spark; he gritted his teeth as he closed his eyes and tried to find what he had lost. He felt his body trembling as he strained for even the smallest drop of mana, reaching inside blindly.

Fenris’ head whipped around as a scream of anguish, frustration and pain rang out from behind the ragged grey curtain. Hawke and Bethany moved almost as one as they stepped towards the alcove, but Fenris was faster. His brands lit up almost without conscious thought and he was a streak of brilliant white light as he reached the alcove ahead of them and threw back the curtain, lighting up the small room, nearly overbalancing as he came to a sudden halt before he could bowl the former mage over.

Anders turned towards him, lifting up his empty hand. “There’s nothing, there’s -” he cried out, and then he suddenly gasped as his bare palm lightly brushed Fenris’ arm, touching briefly one of the blazing lyrium lines. Fenris’ gasp echoed Anders’ as he felt briefly a tingle that raced along the line of lyrium incised into his flesh. 

It was gone as swiftly as it had come. As Fenris let the light die from his lyrium, he regarded Anders with wide eyes; Anders appeared equally shocked. He lifted his trembling hand to stare at his palm incredulously.

“ _Fasta vass_ , what was that?” breathed Fenris.

“I don’t know,” whispered Anders. “You felt it too? I wasn’t imagining it?”

“Anders, are you alright?” exclaimed Hawke as he peered over Fenris’ shoulder, Bethany craning her neck to look around the elf on his other side.

“I don’t know,” said Anders, his voice shocked and bewildered. “I don’t know what just happened. I felt... something.”

“As did I,” said Fenris quietly.

“Whatever it was... it’s gone now,” said Anders slowly. He lowered his hand and was suddenly aware of his state of undress, clad only in a worn and faded pair of pants; barefoot, water still dripping from his loose hair as it brushed his shoulders.

He was also acutely aware of the close proximity of Fenris; the scent of leather, lyrium, sword oil - the smells that were uniquely Fenris. The small alcove suddenly seemed very overcrowded and tiny, almost claustrophobically so, and his breath caught in his throat as Fenris stared up at him, so close that Anders could feel the elf’s breath upon his damp skin.

“Too close,” he breathed, and swallowed hard.

Bethany slapped Hawke’s arm lightly with the back of her hand. “Come on, Garrett, let’s give Anders some space, hmm? Let him finish washing and dressing. Fenris?” She tugged her brother away.

The elf regarded Anders with that same unreadable expression from earlier then took a step backwards. “My... apologies. I thought....”

Anders frowned, bewildered. “You thought...?” he echoed.

“Never mind,” scowled Fenris as he turned away and drew the curtain closed again, leaving Anders alone with his thoughts.

When Anders emerged a short while later, dressed and with his damp hair combed back neatly, the others were sitting around the hearth fire talking quietly; as Anders took a seat on an upturned crate, Bethany handed him a plate of bacon and eggs and a mug of tea.

“You are a blessing, Bethany,” he smiled, then tucked into his breakfast. He was aware of Fenris watching him from over the rim of his bowl of porridge but said nothing. Whatever was on his mind, doubtless Fenris would speak it sooner or later. Preferably after Anders had finished eating and had a full stomach.

As Anders laid down his fork on his empty plate with a small, satisfied sigh and picked up his mug of tea, Hawke cleared his throat.

“So. About what happened.”

Anders went still, then lowered his mug. “When?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Hawke glanced at Bethany who gave him a warning look. “Ah... just now,” said Hawke. “You yelled.”

“Frustration,” replied Anders sourly.

“And afterwards?” pressed Hawke, glancing at Fenris.

“No idea,” shrugged Anders. “Maybe nothing. In fact, probably nothing.” 

“Then you and I both felt nothing,” Fenris rumbled quietly. Anders darted him a suspicious look, but the elf was staring into his mug as though they were merely discussing the weather.

“What happened in there?” asked Hawke, pressing further. Anders sighed and set his mug down before rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. The empty eye socket was itching abominably and he was having to fight hard the urge to rip off the eyepatch and scratch at the scars.

“I don’t really know,” he said. “I was thinking about what you said last night - about me maybe still being a mage - and trying to, I don’t know, _find_ perhaps a small scrap of mana - something to draw on, however tiny. I couldn’t find anything, and then Fenris burst in all lit up like that and I accidentally touched his arm and....” He lowered his hands and huffed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. “I thought I felt something. Like a tingle in the palm of my hand. It was probably nothing though.”

Fenris looked as though he were about to argue, then glanced away, perhaps thinking better of it.

“Anders, last night you said that if a non-mage had drunk that much lyrium, it would probably be fatal even without the felandaris,” said Bethany slowly. He nodded, frowning slightly. “But you’re fine?”

“As far as I can tell, yes,” replied Anders with a shrug. “The symptoms I experienced aren’t what I would associate with lyrium poisoning; I’m assuming that was the felandaris, mostly.”

“So what would happen if you drank just ordinary lyrium?” asked Hawke.

“Are you asking me to try?” asked Anders, sitting straighter. 

“No, he is not,” said Fenris unexpectedly, giving Hawke a sharp look. “Was his near-death through poisoning not enough?”

“Easy, Fenris,” said Hawke soothingly as Anders stared perplexed at the elf. “Just thinking aloud. Does anyone know what would happen if one of the Tranquil drank lyrium?”

“No. And I’m not going to the Gallows to ask,” replied Anders. “Just before you get any ideas.” He picked up his cup then got to his feet. “Well, fascinating as this all is, I have work to do; I need to open the clinic.” He walked over to his desk, setting down the mug as he picked up flint and steel then headed towards the doors. He paused to eye the state of them, then sighed. “Fenris, I wish you’d learn to knock,” he groused.

Fenris and Hawke exchanged a glance, then got to their feet.

“Any good with a hammer?” asked Hawke.

“No,” replied Fenris tersely, then glanced at Hawke. “You?”

Hawke sighed. “I’ll go talk to Varric. He must know a carpenter or two....”


	13. Chapter 13

In the end, it was Varric who arranged for the repair of the clinic doors. He had listened patiently, nodding as Hawke and Fenris explained what had happened, then given Fenris a wry smile and told them to leave it to him. Good to his word, two carpenters showed up at the clinic a few hours later to repair the doors. By the time they’d left, there was no sign that there had ever been a mishap to the doors. 

Fenris had returned that evening with Anders’ share of the pay from the patrol job from Aveline and a pot of stew sent by Leandra, along with an invitation for Anders to come join the Hawke family for dinner the following weekend. Anders had shrugged, not answering one way or another. Fenris had served the stew and they had eaten in silence, Anders not quite able to bring himself to ask why Fenris had taken upon himself to bring his share of coin himself rather than leave it to Varric, and Fenris either unwilling or unable to admit that he did not want their routine of the past two months to end, even if it was now quite obvious that Anders needed no further protection or training. They ate in an uncomfortable silence before Anders retired to bed, claiming exhaustion.

Neither of them mentioned the strange experience of that morning. The following day, they breakfasted in silence, and then Fenris took his leave of Anders somewhat awkwardly. The clinic seemed very empty once he had gone, and Anders found himself slightly at a loss as to what to do with himself. He, too, had grown too used to their routine.

Anders lost his first patient two days later.

Varric had dropped by the clinic, accompanied by a man carrying a chest. The dwarf inspected the repaired doors then nodded before gesturing to the man and leading the way into the clinic.

Anders had glanced up briefly as he entered, nodding distractedly as he brushed hair out of his face then turned back to the labouring woman he was tending. Her husband glanced up at Varric then dropped his gaze back to his wife as she panted and moaned, oblivious to the entrance of the strangers.

“Nearly there - easy now, you’re doing really well,” said Anders encouragingly. “I can see the top of the head - two more pushes and you’ll be done, I promise.” The woman gave a breathless moan of dismay.

“Now, come on, you can do this, Mae!” Anders patted her trembling thigh, his other hand resting lightly on her abdomen. As the next contraction rippled through her, he kept talking in a low, soothing voice, urging her to keep breathing. “Good girl, that’s it, just bear down -” He crouched down between her thighs, his hand shifting from her leg to reach for something wet and glistening. “That’s it, that’s the head through! We’re nearly there, Mae, it’s nearly over! Just one more push -”

Mae gave a long, exhausted wail as she bore down once more, and then Anders was sitting back on his heels with an armful of squalling newborn, a tired yet happy smile on his face as he looked up at Mae and her husband. “Congratulations, Mae; you’ve a beautiful baby daughter,” he said gently. 

He laid the baby on her mother’s tummy and Mae hugged her gently as her husband crouched down next to her and laid a hand lightly on the tiny head of his newborn daughter. Anders was busying himself dealing with the afterbirth.

Varric directed the man to set the chest down in the corner near Anders’ preparation bench then dismissed him. He turned and glanced around the clinic.

Besides the labouring woman, there was a handful of other patients in the clinic; a few of the small cots were occupied, and it looked as though Anders had had a busy morning. The dwarf smiled when he spotted Fenris crouched down next to a small child. Varric made his way over to them both.

“I didn’t expect to find you here, Broody!” he greeted the elf. Fenris glanced up.

“Varric. When did you get here?” he asked, straightening slowly.

“Just now,” answered Varric. “Anders’ alchemy supplies arrived this morning; I figured he’d want to get his hands on them as soon as possible, but I guess he’s a bit preoccupied right now.” He jerked his head towards where Anders was still busy with the new mother. 

“The woman has had a difficult labour,” nodded Fenris. “Anders has been with her since yesterday morning; I’ve been dealing with the other patients as best as I can so he could concentrate on her.” He gestured at the other patients. “I am no healer, but I can at least bandage wounds and apply salves. It has become obvious to me that there is much need of Anders’ services and that there is often far more work here than one pair of hands can manage alone.” 

Varric eyed the elf shrewdly. He guessed there was another reason behind Fenris’ presence, but if the white-haired warrior were not ready to admit it to himself yet, then Varric certainly wasn’t going to be able to prise it out of him. Yet.

“Fenris, I could use a hand here!” called Anders suddenly, looking up, his face serious. The woman, Mae, was lying back on the cot, her face very pale as her husband looked on anxiously, his baby daughter cradled in his arms.

Fenris hurried over, Varric a couple of steps behind.

“She’s bleeding, far too heavily; something’s torn somewhere. Pass me a healing potion,” said Anders tersely. 

Fenris frowned. “There are none. You used the last yesterday evening on the miner with the head injury.”

“What?” exclaimed Anders, his face paling. This close, Varric could see how haggard and exhausted Anders was. He turned back to the woman and began to work frantically.

The woman’s breathing was becoming uneven, each breath a shallow pant, her face waxen and pale. She seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness. Varric glanced from her pale face back to Anders. 

Varric and Fenris could do nothing. And in the end, despite all his efforts, nor could Anders.

***

“Blondie. Come on Blondie. You can’t just sit there.”

Anders stared at his hands. Blood covered them; covered his arms up to the elbows. _So much blood._ He hadn’t been able to save her. She had bled out, despite his best efforts. He had reached, and reached, and _reached_ inside himself but there was nothing there, and Mae had died. And he could do nothing.

“I couldn’t save her,” he said quietly. “I could feel her slipping away and I couldn’t save her.”

Fenris nudged Varric out of the way and set down a bowl of warm water. He knelt down in front of Anders and reached for the blond man’s hands; Anders let him take them and the elf began to wash them carefully.

“You did your best,” rumbled the elf gently. “You could do no more.”

“I could have. Once, I could have,” murmured Anders brokenly. 

Varric sighed and shook his head. He’d seen enough people in shock to recognise the signs. “Blondie, you did what you could. Sometimes... people just don’t make it.” He shrugged. “You gave her a better chance than she’d have had alone. The baby was born healthy.”

“I lost her,” said Anders, as he lowered his head. His shoulders began to shake with silent sobs.

Fenris stared up into Anders’ face then glanced up at the dwarf, a look of grave concern upon his face. He glanced back to Anders then gently dried the former Warden’s trembling hands. Anders drew his hands out of Fenris’ grasp then huddled in upon himself, his breathing hoarse and ragged, his sobs almost silent save for the gasp of indrawn breath between each one.

Fenris hesitantly reached up a hand as though to touch Anders, then drew it back, unsure how Anders would respond to the touch. He got to his feet and turned to Varric.

“He cannot stay here; he is in no fit state to be left alone,” the elf said quietly. Varric nodded.

“Let’s get him back to the Hanged Man; I dare say he could use a few drinks,” the dwarf agreed.

 

***

Varric glanced up at the sound of feet pounding up the stairs to his rooms; a moment later, Hawke burst into the room, Bethany as step behind him. 

“I came the moment I got your message - Anders, is he....” Hawke’s eyes fell on Anders and he fell silent.

Anders was sprawled with his head upon the table, one hand still loosely curled around an empty wine bottle. As Hawke stared, he opened his good eye with difficulty, his gaze unfocused as he squinted past his dishevelled hair. His eye was red-rimmed; he looked like he’d been crying hard for some time. He tried to say something, then seemed to give it up as a bad job, shrugged, and closed his eye again.

“He’s drunk,” Hawke realised.

“He lost his first patient since losing his magic,” rumbled Fenris quietly. Hawke started; he hadn’t noticed the elf’s presence, as intent as he had been on Anders.

“Oh no,” breathed Bethany. “Poor Anders, he must be devastated!”

“That’s about the shape of it, Sunshine,” nodded Varric. “I don’t recall as I’ve ever seen Blondie take a death to heart quite so badly as this before.”

“But... I don’t understand,” said Hawke slowly. “He’s been a healer for a long time. Surely he must have lost patients before?”

“Garrett,” said Bethany quietly. “He’s still coming to terms with losing his magic.”

Fenris nodded. “He feels that if he still had his magic, he could have saved her. Likely he is correct. He was obsessed with what you had suggested - that he might still be a mage. He blames himself for not reaching deeply enough.”

Anders made a faint, plaintive noise then hiccupped. He dragged the bottle closer and managed to lift his head enough to set the bottle to his lips and tip it back, but a moment later he let it fall with a grunt. “‘S empty,” he slurred. “Fen... bottle’s empty.”

Fenris took another bottle from the sideboard without a word; phasing his hand without thinking about it, he removed the cork. Anders frowned a little and rubbed the back of his neck then reached for the bottle, taking a long pull.

“Is that a good idea?” asked Bethany quietly.

“Probably not,” replied Varric with a sigh. “If you’ve got a better one though, I’m all ears, Sunshine. This isn’t exactly my area of expertise.”

“It’s not really mine either,” said Hawke, troubled. 

Anders had lowered the bottle and was squinting at it. He showed no sign of being aware of them discussing him. He placed the bottle on the table with exaggerated care and blinked owlishly at it for a moment, and then abruptly slipped sideways out of his chair.

Hawke caught him before he could hit the floor. The slender blond man was a dead weight in his arms; as Hawke hefted him up, Anders began to snore.

“I think that’s Blondie’s lot for the evening,” shrugged Varric.

“What are we going to do with him?” wondered Hawke. “I can’t take him back to ours - I’m sure Mother would be delighted for the chance to fuss over him but Gamlen won’t be too pleased.”

“Can you get him back to his clinic?” suggested Varric.

“I don’t think he ought to be left alone,” said Bethany. “What if more templars show up to find out where the first lot got to?”

“He can come with me,” Fenris said suddenly. The others turned and stared at him, Varric arching his eyebrows in surprise. “I live alone in Danarius’ mansion; there are several rooms. He will be safe there, and the templars would not think to look for him there.”

“Are you sure, Broody?” asked Varric. 

“He will be safe,” nodded Fenris. “Though I would not refuse assistance taking him there.”

Hawke nodded. “Beth, grab Anders’ staff will you?” he asked as he set Anders’ feet upon the floor and slung his arm across his shoulders. Fenris stepped in to Anders’ other side, slinging his other arm across his own shoulders.

“What’s this?” asked Bethany, retrieving something from the floor. She turned it over and stared at the small pillow, lightly trailing her fingers over the faded embroidered flowers.

“Something that means much to him I believe,” rumbled Fenris. “He insisted on keeping it with him when we brought him here.”

Bethany nodded and tucked it under her arm as she reached for Anders’ staff.

“I guess Wicked Grace is off this evening,” remarked Hawke. “Maybe tomorrow, Varric?”

“Sure thing, Hawke,” nodded the dwarf. “Hope Blondie’s back to normal soon.”

“You and I both,” Hawke muttered. He nodded farewell to Varric, and then he and Fenris turned and half-carried, half-dragged the comatose Anders towards the stairs, Bethany following behind.

Varric sighed as he watched them go, then reached for the unfinished bottle of wine. “Hell of a night,” he remarked to the empty room.


	14. Chapter 14

Anders became aware of three things simultaneously when he finally awoke.

His head was splitting.

His stomach was twisting itself in knots.

And he desperately needed to pee.

He managed to open his eye slowly, and instantly regretted it. A lance of pain shot through his head, the light in the room blinding. He shut his eye instantly and whimpered as the throbbing in his skull intensified. His stomach gave a rebellious lurch, and he realised dismally that he was about to throw up.

A warm hand rubbed reassuring circles on his back, then shifted to brush his hair away from his face.

“There is a bowl here.”

He didn't question the voice or how the speaker seemed to _know_ what he needed. He opened his eye, saw a large, slightly chipped white enamelled bowl held by a dark lyrium-lined hand, and managed to lever himself up on one arm enough to hang his head over the bowl. The next few minutes were filled with the unpleasant experience of his stomach doing its best to turn itself inside out, his mouth and nose filled with the taste and scent of bile and regurgitated wine. He could barely draw breath between each spasm of retching, his feet pushing uselessly against the tangled blankets as his stomach heaved and his guts clenched even after there was nothing left in his stomach and he was only bringing up bile and phlegm.

He became distantly aware of the hand gently stroking his hair back out of his face and a quiet rumble of murmured soothing sounds as he finally slumped back down onto the bed, wrung out and spent, shivering and exhausted. He must have moaned or made some other pitiful noise; the hand stroking his hair shifted to gently brush his cheek.

“Easy there. It's over, it's done. Just breathe.”

 _That voice. He should recognise that voice._ he couldn't think straight for the throbbing agony in his head. He was aware of a fiery itching in the scarred empty socket of his missing eye.

He felt the mattress lift and made a weak, protesting sound.

“Shh, easy, mage. I will be back in a moment.”

“Nnngh... n-not a mage,” he managed to moan. His head ached too much to even think straight. There was something he'd forgotten, but he couldn't focus beyond the hollow emptiness of his stomach and the lancing pain in his skull.

The mattress dipped again, and then the gentle reassuring touch of a hand in his hair briefly before a cool, damp cloth was laid across his brow.

“'M dying,” he managed to groan. There was a soft rumbling chuckle.

“No, mage, though doubtless you wish you could. When did you last drink that much?”

“Can't remember,” Anders moaned. “Kill me.”

“After all the trouble I've gone to for you? No, I think not.” There was amusement in the voice that chastised him. The voice was very familiar; it sounded like Fenris, but that couldn't be possible. He couldn't imagine Fenris being this gentle and caring, stroking the hair back from his face and trailing fingers lightly down the side of his face and oh, but he was kind of liking this, but if it were Fenris then this had to be a dream because Fenris wouldn't -

“Why wouldn't I?” asked Fenris.

Anders' eye opened wide as he realised that yes, it was indeed Fenris stroking his hair.

He flinched without thinking and then cried out as the incautious movement made his head throb anew.

“Calm yourself, Anders. I mean you no harm,” said Fenris quietly. “Wait one moment; I have a healing potion here somewhere.” The elf rose and moved away.

Anders blinked. Healing potion. He had called for a healing potion... when? Why? Something on the edge of his memory.... He frowned. He couldn't think straight, but it seemed somehow important. Something about having run out of healing potions.

He sat up gingerly as Fenris returned to his side and held a small flask out to him. Anders accepted it with a grimace and downed it, then lowered the empty flask and stared at it as the pounding headache at last began to recede. He frowned as he hefted the glass bottle. There was something... a reason he'd needed a healing potion, a reason why he'd gotten so drunk to be this hungover -

_Mae. He couldn't save her._

He felt Fenris' hands upon his shoulders; was dimly aware of the elf calling his name above the sudden roaring his ears as his vision greyed. It took him a few moments of blank-minded grief before he realised the high-pitched keening he could hear was coming from his own throat.

“Mage - _Anders! Venhedis_ , please, calm down and _breathe_!”

Fenris' words finally registered, and Anders drew a deep, shuddering breath. He managed to focus his gaze on the elf and realised that Fenris was regarding him with concern and worry. Anders drew another breath, then another, and then belatedly realised he was clutching the front of Fenris' tunic, the fabric twisted and bunched in his white-knuckled grip. He managed to disengage his hands with difficulty, and was unsurprised to find his hands were trembling.

What _did_ surprise him was Fenris, who released his shoulders only to take Anders' shaking hands in his. Anders dropped his gaze to their joined hands, staring dumb-founded at his own pale fingers in the sure, warm grip of Fenris' sword-callused yet gentle lyrium-lined fingers.

“I-I don't understand,” he faltered.

“You need understand nothing, Anders; only this: that I would care for you, if you will allow me?”

Anders lifted his gaze to meet Fenris' green eyes, uncomprehending. Fenris sighed.

“But....” Anders began, shaking his head slowly in bewilderment. “But why? I don't understand any of this. Ever since I lost my eye, I've been unable to figure you out.” He dropped his gaze back to their hands again. “Since I lost my magic,” he added, a bitter note creeping into his voice. He suddenly lifted his head, narrowing his eye. “Is that it? Suddenly I'm more _tolerable_ now that I'm not a mage any more? Or is this just pity?” He tried to pull away suddenly but Fenris' grip upon his hands tightened.

“There is nothing pitiable about you, Anders,” said Fenris quietly. “I do not think many would have handled the loss of their eye and – yes, the core of their identity – half as well as you have. You are resilient, and stubborn, and resourceful. You took down half the slavers by yourself, then four templars unaided.” He lightly shook Anders' hands; Anders glanced up at him, startled. “Anders, do you not understand why I returned to the clinic to aid you?”

Anders shook his head slowly.

“You have no further need of my training, but I have... grown accustomed to our time spent together, and I found that I missed it. Missed _you_.”

“You missed _me_?” echoed Anders. Fenris shrugged; a small, sheepish smile played across his lips.

“Strange, is it not? We spent so much time bickering that we never realised how alike, perhaps, we are. We have both spent a long time running away. And we have both found ourselves struggling to find a new identity for ourselves. And, yes, over the past few weeks I have grown accustomed to spending time with you – to look forward to it. When I accidentally caused you to drink that tainted lyrium and thought you might die...!”

He drew a shaky breath, and this time it was Anders' fingers that tightened on his.

“I'm not dead,” Anders pointed out quietly. “Though you were right – after throwing up like that I certainly felt like dying. Maker, I haven't drunk that much since the last time I tried to drink all the new recruits under the table with Oghren's special brew back at Vigil's Keep.” He pulled a face. “You'd think that experience would have put me off for life.”

“You seem to learn lessons the hard way, Anders,” smiled Fenris. Anders smiled back, ruefully.

“I do learn them eventually,” he said with a small shrug. “Sometimes I just need reminding.”

“And what do I need to do to remind you that I respect you as a valued companion, a skilled healer, a resourceful alchemist, and a fellow warrior? And as a friend, a -” Fenris broke off, his face colouring.

Anders blinked. “As...?” he echoed.

Fenris glanced away, and Anders stared at him. “Fenris?” he prompted softly.

“I missed you. And I feared for you. I thought....”

“You thought what?” Anders' voice was still soft. Fenris glanced back at Anders, and then wordlessly lifted a hand to gently cup Anders' cheek. Anders held still, his one good eye widening slowly in dawning comprehension mixed with disbelief.

“Fen-”

“Hush,” whispered Fenris quietly as he leaned in, and silenced Anders with a kiss.


	15. Chapter 15

Anders couldn't believe this was happening. He tried to tell himself this was a dream; all just some random fantasy playing through his sleeping mind. And yet....

And yet Fenris' lips were warm and somehow soft against his, and wasn't that strange? The elf was always so hard and prickly, and yet his lips were warm and soft and gentle and Anders couldn't help but respond. It had been so long since someone had treated him with gentle kindness; so long since there had been intimacy of any kind with anyone and he'd missed it, Maker he'd _missed_ it so much and he was starved of affection worse than any stray kitten, and he found himself responding without thought, his lips parting in a breathless, desperate moan that was an entreaty for more, more, _more_.

And Fenris responded willingly, claiming Anders' mouth with his own, his tongue delving in and tasting of Anders as he pushed him back onto the bed. And Anders lay back obediently, deliberately not thinking of consequences or anything other than _here_ , than _now_ , than _this_. When Fenris reached for the ties of his shirt, Anders pulled them loose, helping Fenris to strip him out of the worn garment then lifting his hips as the elf tugged at his pants before reaching for Fenris as the elf stripped off his own tunic. 

Then Fenris' head dipped towards Anders' groin and the blond man cried out as the elf swallowed him down. When Fenris reached between Anders' legs to cup his balls, Anders let his knees fall apart, moaning _yes_ and _please_ and _oh Maker now_ with soft, breathless cries when Fenris' fingers ghosted lower over his perineum and circled his entrance.

Fenris took him slowly and gently, a handful of oil to ease the way, and Anders came apart and undone beneath him, his moans little more than breathless exhalations. He was almost silent as he came, back arching off the mattress as his hands clenched into the folds of the sheets beneath them; his head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth wide in a voiceless cry before he collapsed back onto the bed, helpless and spent. Fenris followed him over the edge, his own cry hoarse, guttural and far too loud after Anders' near-silent unravelment. He fell forward, arms braced either side of Anders' shoulders, and fought to catch his breath.

Anders lay still, his own chest heaving raggedly as his heart raced still, only slowly calming to something approximating its normal resting beat. He opened his eye slowly and stared up at Fenris as the elf panted over him. Fenris opened his own eyes and stared down at Anders, and then he smiled, a fond look in his eyes.

Anders blinked. “Why?” was all he managed to gasp out. Fenris chuckled.

“Mage-”

Anders opened his mouth to object, the words “Not a mage” coming automatically to his lips; but Fenris laid a finger across them, silencing him.

“Hush,” he said softly, then replaced his finger with his own lips, kissing Anders gently. When he drew away, Anders was staring up into his eyes, a confused look upon his face that was shortly replaced by a look of discomfort as he squirmed slightly beneath Fenris.

“I can honestly say that's the first time anyone's tried to help me recover from a hangover by shagging me near senseless, but couldn't you have let me use the bathroom first?” he asked plaintively.

Fenris jerked back, abashed. “ _Venhedis_ , mage – Anders, I – forgive me -” He sat up and helped Anders upright, and Anders had to hide a grin as the elf continued to babble uncharacteristically. And was he - _blushing?_

Anders would have enjoyed this all the more if he didn't desperately urgently need to relieve himself. “The bathroom?” he prompted, gritting his teeth as he stood up.

“ _Fasta vass_ \- yes, down the hall, second door on your left as you go towards the stairs,” Fenris gestured to the door.

When Anders returned from the privy, he was quiet and thoughtful. He found Fenris had donned his pants and was building up the fire in the fireplace, and there was bread and cheese set out on the table. He retrieved his own pants and tugged them on.

When Fenris turned around, Anders was leaning against the bedpost of the dilapidated four-poster bed, his arms folded, the former Warden staring not quite straight at him.

“So....” began Anders slowly.

“So...?” echoed Fenris, slowly getting to his feet.

“So, that was... what?” asked Anders. “You hated me when I was a mage, but now I'm not a mage you want to fuck me? Is that it?”

“ _Vishante kaffras_ \- no, Anders!” exclaimed Fenris as he took a step towards the blond man. “I don't – I didn't hate you. Have you not heard a word I have said? Any of them? I never hated you. And this is not because you have lost your magic.”

“Would you have kissed me if I were still a mage?”

“Anders....” Fenris took a step towards him, and Anders finally turned his head to meet the elf's gaze. He smiled sadly.

“Would you still want to touch me if I were to regain my magic? Would you be able to stand to look at me?”

Fenris closed the space between them in a few short strides, reaching up to cup Anders' face in his hands. Anders held still and allowed him, though his arms remained folded across his chest.

“Anders... this is not about your magic.”

“Isn't it?” asked Anders flatly. “You couldn't stand my touch before I lost my magic. Now you can't keep your hands off me.”

Fenris snatched his hands away as if burned, his face falling. Anders winced and glanced away. The elf's kicked-puppy expression was hard to face, and Anders felt a wrench of guilt in spite of himself. 

He swallowed hard and dropped his gaze to the floor. Dammit, he was the one who felt he'd been used here. Too much was happening too fast. The tainted lyrium, the templars, Hawke's suggestion that maybe he was still a mage, then losing his patient and now Fenris acting like this and being most unFenris-like; and despite the healing potion he still felt hungover and a little queasy – which was probably down to a combination of the lingering after-effects of the magebane on top of the tainted lyrium-poisoning compounded by sleep deprivation and exhaustion, both physical and emotional. The excess of wine on top of all of that was probably the last thing his body needed.

And dammit but _he'd_ missed the routine they'd fallen into together over the past two months. In the desperate searching for new meaning to his life after losing his magic, the calm familiarity of daily breakfast then sparring practice had been a grounding influence at a time when he felt adrift and aimless. 

And if he were being honest with himself then yes, he'd missed Fenris himself. The elf had a habit of getting under one's skin. Before he lost his eye, Fenris' presence had been an irritation, a constant needling barb, though in his own way he'd almost enjoyed the almost-banter between them. It was familiar, and sometimes he'd almost had the feeling it was as amusing for Fenris as it had been for him – well, as long as they avoided the topic of magic and mages' rights, at any rate. And after? His presence had been a reassuring constant. He'd grown used to it; come to welcome it, looking forward to it. When Fenris had shown up at the clinic unlooked for, Anders had felt a genuine warmth and relief.

Yet he couldn't shake the nasty feeling that the change in Fenris' demeanour towards him was down solely to the loss of his magic; he had the feeling that the elf would be delighted if he never regained his magic, not understanding how even now, Anders still felt only half alive, as though he had lost a limb – lost far more than an eye. How could he dare to believe there was anything between them, when it could all be wrenched away if he regained his magic? 

And Fenris had undeniably used him. He had been weak and vulnerable when Fenris kissed him; he was certain it would never have had happened otherwise – he wouldn't have let it happen. ( _Wouldn't he? Was he really so sure?_ ) Fenris had taken advantage of him -

A hand came to rest lightly upon his arm and he glanced up, startled, to find himself staring directly into a pair of intent green eyes. He would have flinched back, but the bedpost at his back checked him.

“Mage. I would have kissed you even if you still had magic. I will not turn away should you regain it.”

“I wish I could let myself believe you,” whispered Anders. And Maker, he _wanted_ to. He wanted to feel Fenris' hands threading into his hair again, feel the elf claim his lips; he wanted the elf to take him again, feel him moving deep inside him once more -

And then Fenris drew him down, one hand cupping the back of Anders' head as he threaded the fingers of his other hand into the soft blond hair and claimed Anders' mouth once more, and Anders couldn't restrain the desperate, needy moan that he breathed into Fenris as he slid to his knees, tilting his head back as Fenris deepened the kiss.

_This is wrong, it's going to end in ruin, I can't do this,_ he told himself even as he whimpered, tugging at Fenris' pants. He broke off the kiss only to take Fenris' stiffening length into his mouth. Fenris groaned encouragingly; one hand still clenched in Anders' hair as he braced himself with the other hand against the bedpost. Anders clutched at Fenris' hips and closed his eyes as the elf thrust into his throat, and he abandoned all thought once more for the here and now.

Maybe the elf was using him. Maybe it would all end in tears. But for now he was tired of being alone, and he couldn't find it in him to care. Let Fenris use him; he didn't want to think any more.

Fenris' fingers tightening in his hair warned him the elf was close again; when Fenris shuddered with a groan, Anders swallowed his spend then leaned back against the bedpost as Fenris pulled himself away on legs that visibly trembled a little.

“Anders.” Fenris' voice was rough as he dropped to his knees before the former Warden, but his hands were gentle as he cradled Anders' face between his palms. He rubbed a thumb across Anders' cheek. “Tears?” His brow creased in concern.

Anders hadn't realised he was crying once more. “I want to trust you,” he confessed. “I want to trust this isn't a dream. I want to trust that nothing would change if- if-”

Fenris smiled gently then leaned in to kiss him lightly again. “I swear that this is no dream,” he murmured. “I would -”

He got no further as the sound of the door of the ruined mansion being slammed open carried clearly to them, echoing up from the corpse-strewn foyer downstairs. They stared at each other, and then Fenris lit his brands reflexively.

Anders gasped; as the lyrium energy surged along the brands cradling his face, he felt an unmistakeable answering surge of energy racing through his blood. He could _feel_ with that internal sense he had feared gone forever. It were as though the elf's blazing brands had opened once more the door to the Fade that had resided within him since his powers first manifested when he was twelve. It was quicksilver and lightning, a heady rush of power that set his skin tingling with a thousand pinpricks of energy, his senses heightened.

“I feel it!” he breathed. “Fenris, _I can feel it!_ ”


	16. Chapter 16

They stared at each other, wide-eyed. Fenris could feel the pull of magic upon his brands, unmistakeable and undeniably coming from the mage before him.

“Anders....”

Anders laughed, disbelieving. “It's back! My magic is back! Oh Maker, it's – I can't describe how it feels, I-”

“Mage.”

Anders broke off and nodded. “Yes. Right. Intruder first, celebrate afterwards.”

Fenris nodded and rose to his feet, but as he turned away Anders gave a strangled cry. Fenris turned back, bewildered; the mage knelt at his feet, looking stricken.

“ _Fasta vass_ , mage, what is it? We do not have time to dally!”

“It went away!” Anders choked. “When you stood up, it... it's gone, it went away, I don't understand!”

Fenris stared down at Anders, then at his own glowing hand. Slowly he extended his hand back towards Anders again. “Take my hand.”

Uncomprehending, Anders reached out and grasped Fenris' hand, then gasped at the surge of power within his veins once more as the elf hauled him to his feet.

“Your lyrium!” he suddenly realised.

“Evidently,” nodded Fenris. “This is... awkward. You are still a mage – but only so long as we are touching and my markings are lit, it seems.”

“And you cannot fight properly whilst holding my hand,” nodded Anders slowly. He stared down at their joined hands, then swallowed hard before reluctantly releasing Fenris' fingers. 

It was like being smothered, half his senses cut off. The singing in his blood was silenced, and without it he felt numb. Suddenly the air in the room felt too thin; he couldn't breathe properly, his head swimming.

He was distantly aware that Fenris was talking to him, had asked some question. He looked up, distracted. “Hmm?”

Fenris had pulled on his leather cuirass and his sword was in his hand; he paused and regarded Anders with worried eyes. “Nothing,” he said finally. “You should stay here. It is likely only looters. I will be back shortly.”

Anders nodded slowly and sank down on the edge of the bed. He stared at his hand, flexing his fingers slowly, feeling that numb empty space inside where his magic ought to flow.

Sounds of shouting and screaming echoed up from the foyer, stirring him out of his reverie; Anders stood up and grabbed his pouch belt from the pile of his clothes laid neatly on a chair, buckling it on about his hips. He grabbed his staff and ran to the door, flinging it open and racing over to the bannister rail to stare down at the hallway below.

It wasn't looters; he could see that as a glance even as he grabbed a couple of flameburst capsules from his belt and hurled them down into the melee below. He rapidly identified the Tevinter mage who stood, seemingly untouchable, hurling damage spells at the lyrium ghost that was devastating the ranks of the mage's lackeys. 

_Slavers._ Anders' lip curled in a snarl. “Why don't you pick on someone your own size?” he yelled as he leapt down the set of stairs that curved to the left of the hall, away from the knot of fighting clustered around the swearing figure of Fenris and towards the mage, pulling more capsules from his belt pouches.

The paralysis bomb exploded at the mage's feet, the green energies writhing about the mage's robed legs to pin him from the knees down. Realising the danger from this new, unexpected direction, the Tevinter mage gestured arcanely towards Anders and a bolt of purple-black energy shot towards him.

Anders raised his staff and the arcane bolt was attracted to the blade. Without missing a step, Anders twirled the staff overhead then levelled the blade at the mage's chest, slinging the bolt straight back at the surprised mage. It hit him full in the chest and he screamed, transfixed in place by the paralysis gripping his legs even as the energies roiled through his body. Anders closed the gap between them in a couple of long strides as he brought the staff around in a sweeping arc that slashed open the mage's throat in a spray of bright crimson blood. He followed it up with another capsule that shattered against the mage's chest, spraying him with magebane; Anders wanted to take no chances on the possibility the man might be a blood mage. 

As the man clutched at his throat, Anders drove the blade of his staff through the mage's heart then threw his strength against the haft. It twisted in the wound with a sickening crunch as the blade ripped free and the mage dropped to the floor, dead before his body hit the ground.

Anders was already turning to face the elf's assailants, who were staring at him with some trepidation. Anders merely grinned savagely as he flicked blood from the blade of his staff and reached for more capsules.

Between them, the blond apostate and the white-haired warrior soon made short work of the remaining slavers.

They stared at the fresh bodies strewn around the hall, blood pooling here and there, smeared across the cracked marble tiles and splattered across the walls. Fenris toed one corpse impassively, then glanced at Anders. “You terrified them,” he remarked quietly.

“I?” exclaimed Anders. “But – how -”

“You should see yourself in a mirror,” replied Fenris with a shrug.

They returned to Fenris' room, and the elf nudged Anders in the direction of a full-length glass that stood propped in a corner, mostly intact apart from a crack across one corner. Anders stared at the bloody apparition that returned his stare. He was clad only in his faded grey pants, barefoot, the belt pouch slung around his hips and wet blood spattered across his body; his arms were red from hands to elbows, and his eyes stared out from a mask of dark crimson splashes, his hair plastered flat. He grimaced, remembering how he had grinned at the slavers; no wonder they had been afraid after what he'd done to the Tevinter mage.

Fenris gave a pained grunt behind him, and hurriedly Anders pulled his eyes away from his own gruesome reflection. “You're hurt?” he asked, laying aside his staff as he made his way to Fenris' side.

“It's nothing; one of them got in under my guard – it is a scratch, nothing more,” shrugged Fenris then grimaced.

“I'll be the judge of that,” replied Anders tersely. “If you'll provide....” He gestured at Fenris' lyrium brands as he laid a hand lightly over the ragged cut that ran down Fenris' bicep.

Wordlessly, Fenris lit his brands, and Anders couldn't restrain a low sigh of relief as his magic came flooding back. He sank his senses into the wound and began to heal it. It felt so good to be able to do this again; to be able to draw torn flesh together, reweaving sinew and tendon, regrow new muscle, clothe the healed cut in new skin until not even a trace of a scar remained. Then he drew on a little more mana as he felt throughout Fenris' body for any other lingering wounds, healing up old strains and bruises before sending the rush of an Invigorate through Fenris.

Keeping one hand upon Fenris' arm, he then turned his attention to his own body, feeling out all the little niggling injuries he'd been forced to endure and heal slowly without the benefit of his magic.

Something made him shy away from the old head wound and scarred eye socket however. He realised he wasn't quite ready to confront that – not just yet.

He pulled his senses slowly back out of awareness of blood, bone, sinew and flesh to find Fenris was regarding him strangely. Anders drew a long, slow breath, and then reluctantly let his hand fall away from the elf's arm, closing his eyes as he felt the magic deaden inside once more. Suddenly he felt incredibly tired and weary and he sagged.

Fenris caught him as he swayed. “Come, mage; let us get you cleaned up, and then rest I think.”

Anders did not protest the name for once.


	17. Chapter 17

“No.” The elf regarded Anders flatly. “Absolutely not.”

“You don't understand!” cried Anders, his hands clenching into fists as he stared at the elf.

“On the contrary; I understand too well, which is why I cannot allow you to do this,” Fenris replied quietly.

“Please!” begged Anders, then again, in a broken whisper, “Please.”

Fenris' eyes softened. “I am sorry,” he said, and turned away.

Anders watched dully as the elf returned the vial of lyrium to the box and closed it firmly. The elf leaned over the crate of alchemical supplies and exhaled in a long, low sigh.

The idea had come to Anders a little while after he had finally awoken after sleeping like the dead for the rest of the day and the whole of the night. He had not stirred once, even as Fenris had gently sponged the drying blood from his body and washed his limp, unresisting hands. He had finally awoken with the dawn the following morning, stirring into wakefulness when Fenris rose from the bed to stir up the ashes of the fire and set water to heat for tea.

He had sat watching Fenris as the elf set out two cups and brewed tea for them both. Fenris glanced up as he poured the tea, aware of Anders' eyes upon him; he smiled, and Anders hesitantly smiled back. When Fenris handed him the cup, he had to restrain the urge to clutch at Fenris' fingers and beg him to unlock his magic again. If his hands shook when he took the cup, Fenris at least had the grace to make no mention of it as he turned away to reach for his own cup.

He could not bring himself to beg, even though he wanted to. That tantalising few minutes when the magic had flown through his blood like quicksilver, tasting the mana with every breath, feeling more _alive_ than he had in weeks, had flown past all too quickly, and he longed to feel it again even if only for a minute. But he couldn't use Fenris like that.

The lyrium. The lyrium was the key; he was certain of it. He recalled again the shimmering halos he had seen about Hawke, Bethany and Fenris as he lost consciousness after inadvertently swallowing the tainted lyrium; recalled the whispers of spirits even as everything had gone dark. He had heard them again as he had healed Fenris. Maybe untainted lyrium would open up his senses once more and unblock whatever it was inside that kept his magic walled away?

They had returned to the clinic as soon as they had finished a light breakfast, Anders' fingers tapping restlessly upon the haft of his staff as he waited impatiently for Fenris to finish donning his armour, though he allowed the elf to distract him with a kiss even as his gauntleted hand closed gently around his fingers to still them. He had smiled self-consciously when Fenris drew away, but couldn't explain to Fenris his wild impatience.

When Anders had made straight for the crate of alchemical supplies and pulled out a vial of lyrium, uncorking it hastily, Fenris had plucked it from his fingers with a scowl.

“Fool mage, do you _want_ to poison yourself again?” he glared.

Anders had argued. Cajoled. Pleaded; even begged; but Fenris was adamant. He would not risk Anders poisoning himself further with lyrium, tainted or otherwise.

Anders' shoulders slumped as he turned away, unable to conceal his dismay and disappointment. He stiffened slightly as Fenris laid a hand lightly against the small of his back, then turned back toward the elf, allowing himself to be held as he dropped his head to rest against Fenris' shoulder.

“I just want to _feel_ again,” he said quietly.

Fenris said nothing, merely held him silently. They stood like that for a few minutes, Anders lifting his head with a quizzical look when Fenris pulled away slightly. Fenris stared up into his eyes as he took Anders' hands in his own, and then with a faint, wordless sigh the elf lit up his brands.

Anders pulled his hands free, though everything in him screamed not to pull away. He wrenched himself from Fenris' grasp with a groan of pain as he turned away, hating himself as he fought down the urge to reach for the elf again as the magic stuttered out like a guttering flame within him, leaving him cold and bereft once more.

“I can't, I can't do this,” he moaned as he stumbled away then fell rather than sat on the edge of a nearby cot, burying his face in his hands.

“I thought -” began Fenris, bewilderment in his voice; Anders could practically _feel_ the hurt, kicked-puppy look he knew the elf must be giving him.

“Don't get me wrong, I want it – I want it more than you can imagine,” replied Anders, his voice a little muffled by his hands. “But I can't use you like that. I'm not Danarius.”

“I did not say you were,” said Fenris slowly, baffled. “Anders -”

“You don't understand,” sighed Anders. He lifted his head to stare at Fenris with his one good eye. “If you do this... it makes it harder to let go. I'll only want you to do it more and more. And yet I know your brands hurt you. Every time you use them, it burns. And I... I can't do that to you. I can't ask you to do that for me.”

“How did you...!” exclaimed Fenris, startled. He had never breathed a word to a single soul of how it pained him to use the markings incised into his skin. He had told Hawke of how they had been cut into his very flesh, and they had all learned that he could not abide to be touched save only rarely, but even to Hawke he had never confided what it cost him in pain to use the brands.

“Healer, remember?” said Anders with a wry lop-sided smile. “Before I lost my magic, I could tell – whenever we were fighting alongside Hawke, I would know through my magic the very moment any of you were hurt – but you were always this ball of elf-shaped pain every moment you were lit up. I know what it costs you.” He lifted a hand to forestall Fenris before the elf could speak. “I know, you're used to it by now – but that doesn't mean I can bring myself to allow you to endure more pain on my behalf.” He sighed quietly. “I just have to find another way to do it. I had hoped....” He gestured at the crate, then lowered his head. “It doesn't matter,” he muttered.

Fenris lowered himself to sit next to Anders on the cot; after a moment, he laid a hand gently over Anders' as it rested on his knee. Wordlessly, Anders turned his hand palm uppermost and they laced their fingers together.

“What did you hope the lyrium would do?” rumbled the elf quietly.

“Unlock what's been locked away inside me,” said Anders softly. “Give me back what was taken. Make me whole again.”

“Anders,” said Fenris gently as he shook their interlaced hands lightly. “You _are_ whole. We know your magic is not wholly gone. Give it time. Perhaps it is like – like feeling returning again, when nerves heal.” 

Anders lifted his head and looked at him quizzically.

“You remember – not long after we first met, that fight with slavers on the coast? The bloodmage who caught me with that fireball. You healed me, but it took some time for the feeling to return to my leg – you told me that even with magical healing, the nerves still had to regrow after being burned.”

“I remember,” nodded Anders, then smiled ruefully. “You cussed a blue streak that I couldn't just heal it all instantly and you tried to walk on it before it had finished healing.”

Fenris nodded and returned Anders' smile with a wry one of his own. “It seems I have to learn some lessons the hard way also.” Anders snorted. “But perhaps this is like that, Anders – perhaps you have to let your magic grow back in its own time?” Fenris went on. “Perhaps you must simply have patience. I would not see you poison yourself with lyrium. We both know that lyrium is toxic enough itself, and I... would not wish to lose you.”

“I wouldn't like to lose me either,” quipped Anders, but the flippant grin that flickered across his face was gone as swiftly as it had appeared.

Fenris' fingers tightened briefly upon Anders' hand. “Have patience,” he said softly.

Anders closed his eye. “It's so hard,” he breathed. “To know it's still there and not be able to reach it. To know that I could -” His eye flew open and the colour drained from his face as he stared across the clinic at the cot where Mae had given birth and breathed her last. His eye widened. “I could have -”

Fenris grasped Anders by the shoulders and shook him none too gently. “Anders. Anders! Look at me!” Anders stared at him, wild-eyed, as he clutched at Fenris' hands. “Anders, you didn't know. _We_ didn't know!”

“We could have saved her!” Anders breathed.

Fenris shook his head. “No. We had no idea. We didn't know. Do not blame yourself for this – we didn't, _couldn't_ have known.”

Anders stared at him in disbelief, and then slowly crumpled.


	18. Chapter 18

Anders was poking desultorily at his bowl of stew when Aveline joined them at the Hanged Man later that afternoon. He didn't really feel hungry, but when Fenris had dragged him there earlier, Varric had taken one look at him and then slid his lunch over in front of the apostate and ordered him to eat, and he hated to waste Varric's generosity. The pointed look Fenris gave him over the rim of his wine glass made him sigh, but he dutifully ladled up a spoonful of stew and began to eat without much enthusiasm.

“Varric, Fenris – Anders,” Aveline greeted them as she stripped her gauntlets off. “I was hoping to find Hawke here; he and Bethany weren't at his uncle's house.”

“I'm sure he'll show up soon, Red; we've our postponed game of Wicked Grace to look forward to later after all, and he never misses that.” Varric sat back in his chair and gestured to her to take a seat. “Join us, if you're not on duty?”

Aveline slapped the palm of her hand absently with her glove. “Well... technically my shift finished half an hour ago....” she said slowly.

“Excellent! What'll you have – wine or beer?” said Varric as he rose to his feet, ever the genial host. 

Aveline pondered. There was still paperwork waiting for her back at the office, but that would mean a long walk back to Hightown to the office then traipsing all the way back again for the game afterwards. She took a seat opposite Anders. “Beer, please,” she decided.

Varric bowed towards her and headed off to order more drinks as Aveline glanced across the table at Anders, who was still slowly making his way through the bowl of stew, his own glass of wine still untouched.

“Anders, you're looking....” Her voice trailed off as he paused and glanced at her, the eyebrow over his good eye quirking upwards as though daring her to say he looked well. His face was gaunt, dark shadows beneath his eyes.

“... better than last time I saw you,” she finished a little lamely. He shrugged, then glanced sidelong at Fenris before returning his attention to the stew.

Aveline followed his glance to Fenris and frowned slightly. “Has something happened?” she asked as Varric returned and slid a tankard of beer in front of her; she absently nodded thanks.

“Seems Blondie is still a mage after all – in a manner of speaking,” said Varric.

“In a manner of speaking?” she echoed, glancing again at Anders.

The mage kept his gaze on the bowl of stew. “It appears there's something blocking my magic,” he said slowly. 

“Is there a way to unblock it?” asked Aveline. Anders lifted his head and turned to stare pointedly at Fenris. Aveline glanced at the elf with a small frown. 

“Fenris?” she guessed. “What does Fenris have to do with this?”

Fenris cleared his throat and looked discomfited. “It appears that if I light my brands whilst in contact with Anders, he can use his magic.”

“Beautiful, isn't it, Red? Blondie's a mage – but only when he holds Broody's hand!”

“Varric, if you turn this into one of your stories, I swear I will -” began Fenris heatedly as his face darkened; Varric leaned back and lifted his hands peaceably. 

“Wouldn't dream of it, Broody! I wouldn't tell Isabela just yet though if I were you.”

Fenris grunted and tapped a gauntleted finger restlessly upon the wooden surface of the table as he glanced back at Anders. 

“So lyrium unlocks Anders' magic?” guessed Aveline before taking a pull on her beer. She set the tankard down again. “Have you tried drinking lyrium?”

Anders straightened up and slapped a hand down triumphantly as he turned and stared at Fenris with an expression of vindication. Varric groaned and hid his face with one hand.

“No. Absolutely not,” replied Fenris without looking at Anders, his attention instead upon his wine. Anders threw his hand up with a noise of frustration and stared at the ceiling.

“They've been arguing this for the past hour, Red,” explained Varric as he reached for his own tankard. “Blondie wants to try it. Broody says no.”

“Wait – since when did Anders ever do what Fenris said?” blinked Aveline. 

Anders suddenly developed an interest in his bowl of stew again as Fenris studiously ignored everyone in favour of the bottom of his wine glass, the tips of his ears blushing red.

“Did I miss something?” asked Aveline as Varric grinned. He directed a pointed glance at Fenris then Anders, then wiggled his eyebrows. “No!” exclaimed Aveline, torn somewhere between scandalised and fascinated. “I don't believe it!” She laughed.

“Thank you so much, Aveline; I do so enjoy people laughing at my love-life,” muttered Anders as he poked his stew. “It's rare enough that I even _have_ one, after all.”

“It is not -” began Fenris, then broke off when Anders merely looked at him from behind his hair. “Very well, it _is_ a – a – yes, we _are_ , but -” 

Aveline laughed as the normally-taciturn elf uncharacteristically began stammering as he blushed further. 

“It is no laughing matter!” shouted Fenris as he leapt to his feet, spilling his glass of wine.

“What's no laughing matter?” asked Hawke as he paused in the doorway. “What's all this shouting? I swear half the bar downstairs can hear you, Fenris.”

Fenris glowered at him then abruptly whirled to leave. Without looking up, Anders reached out and laid a hand on Fenris' wrist lightly.

“Fen. Please,” he said quietly.

The white-haired elf stared down at the pale hand resting upon his wrist. He said nothing, but covered Anders' hand with his own then turned and sat down again, slipping one arm around Anders' waist.

Hawke stared at them both for a minute as Bethany peered over his shoulder then punched her brother lightly in the arm. “Not a word, Garrett,” she warned him.

“I didn't -” he began to protest as she squeezed past him; she shot him a warning glare and he sighed. “Fine.”

Bethany slipped into the seat on the other side of Anders and gave his shoulder a pat. His lips quirked in a small smile as Fenris' hand around his waist gave a slight squeeze; he sighed, and leaned in against Fenris' side. He pushed the bowl of stew away with an apologetic glance at Varric before reaching for the glass of wine.

Hawke shrugged and dropped into the seat next to Aveline. “I understand you've been looking for me Aveline?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Yes, it's about those lyrium smugglers,” replied Aveline. “We've been stepping up patrols in Darktown but without much success. I need your help again, Hawke.”

“Business as usual then?” shrugged Hawke.

“Afraid so. I need to come with you on this one; I've lost four good men to those butchers in the past three days,” she replied.

“Ah. Now it's personal?” guessed Hawke.

“Something like that,” she agreed. “Will you help me?”

Hawke glanced across the table. “Varric, Fenris, Anders – you in again?”

“Sure thing, Hawke,” agreed Varric with a nod. Fenris grunted assent; Anders looked first startled then pleased to be included.

“Of course, Hawke,” he replied.

“Good, that's settled,” said Aveline. “We'll go down tomorrow night. I'll meet you outside Anders' clinic just before sundown.”

Talk turned to other things; as the sun went down, the cards came out, and they played cards until late in the night, all talk of lyrium forgotten for the moment.

***

Their patrol ran into trouble right from the outset. The smugglers seemed to have been expecting them; they ran right into an ambush almost immediately. Their only warning was the snap of a bowstring then Aveline cried out as a crossbow bolt buried itself in her shoulder, punching through her guard armour.

Varric returned fire as Fenris lit up and leapt into battle, a vivid streak of silver-white light wielding a deadly blade as Anders hurled one of his ice blast capsules at the nearest smugglers before turning to bring his staff up, parrying a sword blow that would have taken his head off. Hawke buried a dagger in the smuggler's back and the man dropped; Anders nodded thanks briefly as he turned to deal with Aveline's wound whilst Bethany threw up a shield around them both, the two rogues and the elven warrior taking care of the remaining smugglers swiftly. Aveline had dropped to her knees, clutching the bolt with one hand.

“Hold on, don't move,” Anders shouted above the sounds of the smugglers dying. “Bethany, lyrium.”

Bethany pulled a vial from her pouch and handed it to him reflexively then did a double-take, staring at him wide-eyed even as Fenris cut down the last slaver and cried, “No!”

“No?” echoed Hawke, panting, as he wiped sweat from his brow and glanced back. He stared at Anders with the vial of lyrium in his hand, then at Fenris. “What's going on?”

“Blondie's still a mage, Hawke, but his magic's blocked,” said Varric as he slung Bianca over his shoulder and walked over to Anders and Aveline. “He figured maybe drinking lyrium might unlock it.”

“And I say no,” Fenris growled from behind gritted teeth. “I will not allow it!”

“What? Fenris, what the hell's gotten into you – if drinking lyrium means he can heal Aveline...!”

“I say he shall not! I won't let him risk poisoning himself on a mere chance!” snarled the elf, placing himself between Hawke and the others. As Hawke pushed forward, Fenris swung his fist. There was an audible crack as Hawke's head snapped back, and then Fenris and Hawke glared at each other. Blood was slowly seeping through the cut in Hawke's lip; the rogue wiped it away slowly, his eyes never leaving those of the elf.

“And I say he can damned well make his own choices, and if Anders thinks lyrium will help then who the hell are you to stop him?” he growled. “Damn it, Fenris, Aveline's hurt! We _need_ Anders' magic!”

“Now, now, let's all calm down here,” said Varric in a placating tone. The dwarf wasn't quite foolish enough to step between the two men, but he glanced between them as he lifted his hands and gestured for them to back down. “Broody, we've only got Blondie's best interests here, same as you. We already know he's still a mage, so what's the worst that could happen? Lyrium's not going to poison him. At worst it'll do nothing. Where's the harm in trying?”

Fenris switched his glare to the dwarf, but Varric didn't back down under the implicit threat in the elf's eyes. After a moment, Fenris threw up his hands and turned away with a curse.

Hawke turned back to Anders, who knelt stiffly beside Aveline as if frozen, his eyes on Fenris; he still held the unopened vial of lyrium in one hand. Fenris pushed past the rogue to drop to his knees before Anders.

“Please, _mi amatus_ ,” he said quietly. “Do not do this. Use my powers instead. Draw upon my lyrium. Don't risk yourself.” He held a hand out towards Anders.

Anders shook his head. “I can't – not knowing how it hurts you,” he replied softly. “Please. Let me try this.”

“Must you do this?” pleaded Fenris. Anders nodded. Fenris stared into Anders' good eye; after a long, tense silence, he slowly nodded. “Do what you must,” he said gently.

Anders breathed a silent sigh of relief. “It may do nothing at all,” he shrugged as he uncorked the vial. After a moment's hesitation, he knocked back the contents and swallowed.

At first, he felt nothing. The lyrium was a tingling sweetness upon his tongue and lips; a coolness in his throat, sinking down into his stomach.

Then it was as though light blossomed inside; first a tingle, then a rush of energy that raced through his blood - a warmth that rose up his throat and spread down his arms to his hands. A glow spreading inside that filled him. It was as though he had seen the world only in shades of grey before but now saw colour; everything vivid, bright, filled with life. He felt alive again, the power flowing through him; he heard the whisper of spirits around them and he couldn't restrain the relieved grin that spread across his face. 

As he glanced at Bethany, he could tell from her delighted answering grin that he didn't have to say a word; she _knew_.

“I hate to disturb you, Anders, but – my shoulder...?” prompted Aveline, her face drawn with pain.

“Hawke, I need someone to draw the bolt out whilst I heal,” said Anders as cool blue healing energies pooled in his upturned palms, the power answering his will readily. Hawke nodded and took a firm hold of the shaft of the bolt as Varric braced Aveline; Anders began channelling healing magic into Aveline as the bolt was withdrawn from her shoulder, the healer skilfully blocking off the pain as he worked to draw torn muscle and flesh back together along the path of the bolt, rebuilding the joint and regrowing skin until not even a scar was left to mar the lightly-freckled skin.

Aveline gave a sigh of relief as she rotated her shoulder to check her range of movement. “Good as ever; thank you, Anders,” she smiled. Hawke helped her to her feet as Fenris helped Anders up.

“How do you feel?” asked Fenris, studying Anders' face carefully. “No dizziness? Nausea? Anything?”

“I'm alright – a little tired, but then that's normal after healing,” replied Anders. “I feel fine. No, better than fine – I feel great!” He grinned.

“It worked!” exclaimed Bethany. “Oh Anders, I'm so happy for you!” She giggled and hugged him on impulse; laughing, Anders lifted her up and swung her around in a circle as she let out a surprised squeal. He set her down then grinned at Fenris as he released her.

“Oh, don't look so jealous, love,” he grinned; and then without thinking, he reached out to Fenris, his fingers sliding into the soft white hair as he bent to claim the elf's lips in a kiss. Fenris began to return it but they both froze then sprang apart when the others began to whoop and cheer.

“Don't mind us, Blondie!” laughed Varric. Anders stared around at them, blushing, as Fenris glowered.

“Oh, you sillies – we're glad for you!” smiled Bethany. 

“Oh, that's alright then,” grinned Anders as he bent to kiss Fenris once more. 

The elf's grumpy “Hrmph!” was swallowed up by their kiss.


	19. Chapter 19

It was a jubilant group that returned to the Hanged Man that evening. They’d found no further sign of the lyrium smugglers, but Aveline seemed reasonably confident that they’d sent a clear message to whoever was behind this new outfit that Kirkwall was not perhaps quite such an easy nut to crack after all.

“I’ll order double patrols through the tunnels for a while, but between your last sweep and this one we’ll have dealt them a serious blow - not to mention losing that shipment of tainted lyrium,” she said as she settled into her seat and nodded thanks to Varric as the rogue set a tankard of ale before her.

“What are you going to do with that, by the way?” asked Hawke, curious. She tapped her nose.

“Not your concern any more, Hawke,” she said, refusing to be drawn.

Hawke pouted, but they were all in too good spirits for him to sulk for long.

The wine and beer flowed, the cards came out, and they chatted, laughed and enjoyed one another’s company until far into the evening.

Anders was in a cheerful mood, still on a high after regaining his magic; but as the evening drew on he became slowly quieter and more withdrawn. He said nothing to the others, but he could slowly feel his mana draining away as the hours passed. As he felt his magic steadily dwindling, he took more and more solace in the wine.

Fenris was oblivious; he was engaged in a somewhat raucous game of Wicked Grace with Varric, Isabela and Hawke in which it seemed he was rather ahead. Distracted, he didn’t notice as Anders fell silent.

His mood did not go unnoticed however. As he stared into his glass, feeling himself growing cold as the power drained back into that empty space inside, he felt someone slip into the seat next to him. He glanced up morosely, unsurprised to find Bethany regarding him sympathetically.

“It went away again?” she asked quietly.

He nodded once, and turned his gaze back to the glass of wine again. She laid a hand gently on his.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“So am I,” he whispered. He lifted his glass then hesitated, before downing it. He set the glass back down, empty; his hand trembled. “Now I know how Karl must have felt. Just before I...” He broke off, his voice rough, and he felt a prickling in his good eye as his throat tightened.

Bethany took his hand and pressed something cold and hard into his palm. He glanced down and stared at the small vial of lyrium, then at Bethany as she folded his fingers over it.

“Don’t tell Garrett,” she murmured. “He wouldn’t understand.”

“Nor would Fenris,” replied Anders. He stared at his hand for a moment, then tucked the precious vial inside his tunic. “Thank you, Bethany,” he said quietly.

“Just... be careful,” she replied gently as she leaned forward and kissed his cheek lightly before rising. She rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, briefly.

Anders glanced up to find Fenris scowling at him. He swallowed, then reached for the bottle of wine and refilled his glass. He was unable to meet the elf’s eyes. He kept his eyes on his glass as he felt the bench shift, then Fenris laid a lyrium-lined hand over his.

“Anders.” The name upon Fenris’ lips was not quite a question. Anders lifted his gaze slowly to glance at the white-haired elf at his side. The elf was frowning; his frown deepened as he stared into Anders’ face. “What is wrong?”

“I’m tired,” said Anders quietly, his voice not much more than a whisper. “It’s been a long day. I think I need to go home and sleep.”

“Home...?” Fenris was still frowning, but now his expression was a little uncertain.

“Unless... you want me to....” Anders’ voice trailed off, equally uncertain. Fenris’ expression softened as his fingers lightly squeezed Anders’ hand.

“I... do. Do you...?” Fenris was hesitant; Anders realised the elf was nervous.

“Come with you?” As the elf nodded, uncertain, Anders gave him a tired smile. “I’d like that.”

As Fenris rose to his feet, he slipped a hand beneath Anders’ elbow to help him up from his seat. The others glanced up as they stood.

“Leaving so early, Broody?” asked Varric. 

“It _is_ after midnight, Varric,” the elf pointed out.

“So it is,” Varric realised with some surprised, then waved them off. “Best get Blondie to bed then; he looks dead on his feet.”

Aveline rose and turned towards them both. “Anders, I’m glad you were with us today - and that you’ve gotten your magic back. Things would have been much worse without you.”

Anders managed to summon a wan smile, aware of Bethany’s gentle eyes regarding him sombrely. “Glad I was able to help,” he replied. “Beth, Hawke. Bela.” He nodded to them each in turn. “Thanks for the wine, Varric.”

“Any time, Blondie. You go get some rest - and don’t let Broody keep you up all night.” He winked at them both before taking up his hand of cards again. “Hope you’re prepared to lose, Hawke, because I’ve got four Kings here that say your gold is mine.”

Hawke’s groan followed them out the door as Fenris guided Anders away.

Anders was silent as they made their way back towards Hightown. He was aware of Fenris darting him sidelong glances, but he kept his gaze on the cobblestones. He hadn’t lied; he _was_ tired - bone-tired. The last dregs of mana were gone, and it felt like it had taken the last of his energy with it. He was finding it hard just to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and it was only the thought of the large, soft bed in Fenris’ mansion that kept him going - that, and the steadying hand of the elven warrior upon his arm.

He leaned against the wall next to the door as Fenris fiddled with the lock and key, then as the door swung open the elf took his arm once more and led him inside.

Once they reached Fenris’ room, Anders moved straight towards the bed, shedding his coat as he went. He paused only to remove his boots before falling heavily onto the bed, burying his face in a pillow.

Fenris stared at him, frowning once more. He made his way over to the fireplace, stirring up the glowing embers with a poker before adding more firewood; then he stood, dusting ashes off his leggings as he approached the bed slowly. “Anders. There is something wrong.”

“It went away again.” Anders’ voice was muffled by the pillow.

Fenris paused by the foot of the bed. “I... see.” He turned away.

“Do you?” asked Anders. He lifted his head and looked around, his eye red-rimmed. “Do you really?”

Fenris reached for something on the floor beside a chair then straightened as he turned towards the bed once more. “I see the effect it has on you.” His hand lit up briefly as he phased it through the neck of the bottle, deftly removing the cork; then he held the bottle of wine out towards Anders. “It will not bring the magic back, and it cannot heal what has been taken from you. But it can help you forget for a while.”

Anders sat up and stared at the bottle of wine in Fenris’ hand for a moment before reaching out to take it. He took a long pull from the bottle then lowered it, staring down at the dusty label.

“Is this to be my life then?” he whispered hollowly. “A few fleeting moments of feeling truly alive, and then drinking myself to oblivion afterwards when it goes?”

The edge of the mattress dipped beneath him as Fenris lowered himself to sit next to the blond apostate. “It need not be,” he said quietly. 

Anders lifted his head slowly and stared hopelessly at Fenris. “I wish I could believe you,” he said wistfully.

Fenris stared at him a moment, then gently plucked the bottle from Anders’ unresisting hands before gently pushing him back down to lie upon the bed.He drew upon the power of the lyrium in his flesh as he cradled Anders’ face in his hands and bent down to kiss the mage, and he tasted salt upon Anders’ lips. He kissed the tear-wet cheeks and then lightly kissed the closed eyelid of Anders’ good eye before gently removing the eyepatch and then lightly kissing the ruined remains of Anders’ other eye.

Anders’ indrawn breath was a ragged sob; he kissed Fenris back fervently, and when the elf reached for his belt he willingly allowed himself to be divested of his pants before rolling over onto his stomach at a whispered word. He heard Fenris open the bedside drawer, and then the sound of a cork popping off the top of a small glass bottle. He spread his legs as he felt Fenris’ questing fingers probe gently into him; and as the elf took him with care and tenderness, he buried his face in the pillow. 

The vial of lyrium was cold and hard, pressed against his chest.


	20. Chapter 20

It was a temptation. He knew that, even as he felt the press of the glass vial against his chest beneath his tunic. He told himself he carried it “just in case” of some nebulous emergency he didn’t quite care to define too clearly. He returned to his clinic and life continued much as it had before, though with a few small changes.

Fenris brought breakfast on those mornings when Anders had not spent the night with him in the mansion; the mornings were given over to alchemical work for the most part, but twice a week they would spar. The rest of the day was given over to Anders’ work in the clinic. Sometimes Fenris would join him; more often he would arrive in the early evening and find Anders still hard at work. Fenris would extinguish the lanterns, send home those who were capable of walking, and help Anders tend to those who needed an overnight stay. If the clinic were empty, then often they would return to the mansion.

If Anders had patients to tend, then Fenris would stay; tending Anders almost as much as the healer tended his patients, in a way. He kept him distracted in the lonely watches of the night; and if sometimes that distraction were physical, then what of it?

He kept the vial in a pouch around his neck; like a talisman, “just in case”.

Sometimes Hawke would have need of them both; a welcome distraction from the routine. It brought in extra coin, though Varric had been right; word of Anders’ skills as an alchemist spread slowly and often Varric would drop by with a pouch of coin for some of Anders’ little custom creations - indeed, enough that Anders could outfit the clinic more comfortably, and buy what stock of herbs he could not find himself. Much of his research were given over to healing however.

It was late summer when he had to take the first dose. A mining accident; a shaft collapsed, injured miners first trickling into his clinic, and then a flood of injured - some walking, many more not. Broken arms, legs, head injuries, crush injuries; broken spines, broken bodies. Too many, too severe for mere poultices and potions.

He had stared around him in despair, then reached for the vial.

That evening, he steadily drank himself insensible in Fenris’ arms and slept like the dead for a day afterwards. Fenris thought it was because so many had still died despite the magic from the lyrium. Anders knew it was because he could not bear the emptiness inside.

It was the first time, but it would not be the last.

The next time it happened, chokedamp had risen up in an area of the shantytown built in one of the lower levels of Darktown. The first he knew of it was the pounding upon the closed and barred doors of the clinic and frantic cries for the healer. He had flung open the doors, seen the steady stream of people being brought to him, and as he turned to ready himself for the hours ahead he reached for the vial.

And it happened again. And again. And again. 

A patrol with Hawke gone wrong. A party of Tal Vashoth that outnumbered them. An ambush set by outlaws. Dragons in the Bone Pit. Anders found himself reaching for the vial again, and again, and again.

Every time, he told himself it was only because the need was dire. And the need was _always_ dire.

At first, it was perhaps once a month. Then every couple of weeks. Then maybe two or three times a week.

After a year, he was taking it daily. He no longer tried to pretend to himself that it was need - or rather, no longer the need of others.

He needed it for himself.

And then one vial ceased to become enough.

***

“I’m worried.”

“We all are, Beth,” said Hawke heavily as he glanced up from the tankard of ale he’d been nursing for the past hour. He glanced over at Varric; the usually-cheerful dwarf was solemn, staring down at the ledger book in front of him.

“It doesn’t look good, Hawke. I’ve had my suspicions for some time; Blondie’s been buying lyrium more frequently lately, but he’s not working on anything new. He’s producing the same amount of his little blast capsules for me as he ever has. Even allowing a little extra for... emergencies....” Varric shook his head. “At a guess, I’d say he must be taking this stuff on a near-daily basis and probably has for some time.”

“He has,” said Bethany glumly. She blushed as she felt their eyes on her.

“You sound like you know something, Beth,” said Hawke. “Go on, we’re listening.”

“He... I...” She trailed her finger through a puddle of spilled wine, mouth pulling down into a small _moue_ of distress. “I’ve been... giving him lyrium. Only the odd vial here and there, when he needed it - only, he’s been needing it more and more, lately.” 

She lifted her head as her words were met with silence; she glanced, worried, at her brother. Hawke shook his head slowly. 

“Beth, Fenris is going to go apeshit when he finds out.”

“When I find out what?” rasped Fenris as he appeared in the doorway just in time to catch Hawke’s words. He stared at the three of them as they sat there, aghast; Bethany’s hands flew to her mouth.

“Find out Anders is addicted to lyrium?” he suggested quietly.

“You -” began Bethany. He glanced at her.

“Already knew?” he finished for her. “How could I not?” He pulled out a chair and dropped into it heavily with a low sigh.

“How long -” began Hawke as Varric rose from his seat to pour Fenris a glass of wine; the elf took it with a nod of thanks.

“How long have I known? Or how long has this been going on?” he asked tiredly as he took a sip of the wine. Hawke spread his hands helplessly. Fenris sighed again and set the glass down before slowly stripping off his gauntlets. 

“I’d had my suspicions for some time,” he said slowly as he picked up his glass and cradled it in his hands. “I don’t think he was addicted - not at first. It was slow. The odd vial here or there. It was always to save lives; I could not forbid him.” _Not after what happened with Mae._ The unspoken words hung heavily in the air.

“He needed it more and more though. I don’t know when it was that the lyrium became the first thing he reached for, rather than the last. But he takes it daily now.” He lifted his head slowly to regard them all, a look of deep misery in his green eyes. “He cannot function without it.”

“How long?” breathed Hawke, horrified.

“A year,” replied Bethany quietly.

Varric and Hawke exclaimed aloud in shock and horror, but Fenris merely tilted his glass slightly towards her. 

“It is as you say,” he agreed.

“You knew Beth was giving him lyrium?” said Hawke slowly.

“Not precisely,” replied Fenris. “I thought it likely however. I have been keeping a careful tally on the lyrium you have sent, Varric - doubtless as you have. But there always seemed to be vials I could not account for.”

“I must say, you’re taking this rather calmly, Broody,” observed Varric slowly. The elf shrugged.

“At least whilst Hawke’s sister was giving him what he needed, I need have no fear he was dealing with smugglers and risking a tainted batch - or worse,” he added darkly. “But now....” He exhaled slowly as he leaned forward to set the glass down on the table. “Now, I am... desperate. I do not know how to help him. I need your help. I can’t do this on my own any more.” He dropped his head into his hands, and then after a moment, his shoulders began to shake.

It took them a moment to realise he was silently weeping.

***

Fenris led them back to the clinic. They exchanged glances as they stood outside; both lanterns were extinguished, but they could see light inside through the cracks in the doors. Fenris glanced at the others, then knocked twice before slowly pushing the doors open.

Anders was hunched over one of his alchemy experiments, carefully adding something liquid to a flask. He didn’t look round as they entered, too intent on his work; as they entered the clinic behind Fenris, Anders set the vial of liquid into a rack then scribbled something in a journal. He laid the quill down, then reached into his pocket for something that glowed blue. As they watched, he uncorked a small vial of lyrium with trembling fingers before downing it in one swallow. He sighed softly in relief and sat there for a moment or two, unheeding of their presence; and then he took up his quill once more with a hand that was now steady.

“Anders.”

At the sound of Fenris’ voice, Anders laid the quill down and glanced over his shoulder. “Hello, love,” he said with a tired smile, then froze as he realised they were not alone. WIth a start, Hawke realised the mage had truly been oblivious to their presence.

“Blondie, you’ve been cooped up in here too long. Why don’t you come have a few drinks with us and get away from all these fumes? Can’t be too healthy for you breathing in this stuff,” remarked Varric as he gestured at the retort stands, flasks of liquids and other apparatus that fumed and bubbled across the surface of two rickety tables.

Anders glanced at his work, then back at Varric. “I... can’t,” he said quietly. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but -”

“Come on, Anders, you can take a break for an evening, surely?” suggested Hawke.

“Love. Please,” said Fenris quietly. His voice and expression suggested that he and Anders had had this argument many times before.

Anders opened his mouth as if to argue, but then his shoulders slumped. “Very well,” he sighed. He laid the quill aside then gently closed the book. He rose with careful slowness from his chair and reached for his coat and staff.

Fenris slipped an arm around the slender mage’s waist and Anders leaned into his support gratefully. The others exchanged worried looks as they followed them out of the clinic.


	21. Chapter 21

In the brighter light of Varric’s rooms, the change in Anders was more pronounced. Varric, Hawke and Bethany exchanged looks, wondering wordlessly how it was they hadn’t noticed before how much thinner Anders looked. Once he had divested himself of his coat, the change was obvious. He had always been slender, but now he looked positively scrawny, all angular bones with dark shadows beneath his eyes. His unwashed hair had been hastily scraped back into a perfunctory ponytail, and his ill-fitting faded grey shirt hung from a frame that was far too sparse. Bethany glanced to Fenris, and the elf shrugged helplessly as if to say, _You see?_

She nodded wordlessly and glanced back to Anders, who was sitting down at the table and already reaching for the bottle of wine, oblivious to their scrutiny.

“This is rather better than Corff’s usual stuff, Varric - are we celebrating?” asked Anders as he glanced up.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” replied Hawke as he took his place opposite Anders. Fenris slipped into his customary place at Anders’ left side, whilst Bethany took the place to his right.

“Hawke’s finally raised the coin for my brother’s Deep Roads expedition,” explained Varric before turning to call for a pot of stew, bread and bowls. “Hope you don’t mind - I haven’t had supper yet, care to join me?” he added.

“Not at all - Beth and I have been out all day and we’re starving,” agreed Hawke, exchanging a meaningful look with Bethany before glancing to Fenris, who slowly nodded. Anders was still studying the label on the bottle of wine.

“So the Deep Roads expedition is on then?” he asked, finally glancing up.

“Looks that way, and not before time,” agreed Hawke.

“You’ll be wanting my maps of course,” Anders said as he set the bottle down. “How soon will you go?”

“That’s up to Bartrand,” replied Hawke with a shrug. He leaned forward. “I was rather hoping you would join us?”

“Me?” Anders blinked. “I... I didn’t think... what with....” He gestured to his eyepatch.

“Why not?” asked Hawke as he leaned back and regarded Anders thoughtfully. “You’ve proven yourself over and over as a valuable person to have along.” He shifted in his seat and fixed Anders with his intense blue gaze. “Anders, hasn’t the past year taught you yet? You have a place with us. You’ve _earned_ that place with us. We want you with us.”

“We all do,” agreed Bethany. “Fenris is coming,” she added.

Anders turned and stared at Fenris in surprise. “You are?”

“Hawke has need of a warrior. Or two,” replied the elf as he took the bottle and poured a generous glass for himself. “You have proven yourself almost as capable as I in that role. But I am not a healer, and Bethany is....”

“Not that good at it,” Bethany supplied herself with a chagrined look. “It just doesn’t seem to come naturally to me I’m afraid.”

Anders dropped his gaze to the table and frowned a little. He bit back the urge to point out that without lyrium, it didn’t come to him at all.

They were interrupted by the arrival of the stew. “Have a think about it,” suggested Hawke as Varric handed out bowls. Anders nodded slowly.

Food was a good distraction; he couldn’t remember how long ago since he’d last eaten. There was breakfast with Fenris, of course - though he hadn’t managed to eat much; he’d felt too queasy. He always did when he first woke up. He’d felt better after he’d taken lyrium. Only a little sip - just to keep him going, he’d told himself, until he got to the clinic. He’d meant to eat later, except somehow it was much later and he’d forgotten.

The stew smelled good, and his stomach rumbled loudly as he inhaled the savoury scent. He pressed a hand against his stomach in alarm and glanced round in embarrassment, but no-one else seemed to have noticed. He took up his spoon and began to eat.

The evening passed in quiet conviviality, and Anders slowly relaxed. He had been working hard of late; he’d almost forgotten how much he had once looked forward to these gatherings.

He was unaware of the glances the others exchanged behind his back, or the way Fenris and Hawke slowly nodded to one another, then looked to Bethany; he only looked up when she faltered in the middle of a quiet anecdote of something Merrill had told her in the marketplace a couple of days previously.

“Hmm?” he encouraged her to continue.

“What? - oh, kittens. Yes, Merrill said one of her neighbours had a cat and it’s had kittens recently,” she said hastily.

“Kittens?” Anders sat up a little straighter. “Do you think any of them are tabbies?”

“I don’t know - I’m going to see her tomorrow, why don’t you come with me?” she suggested.

“I don’t know, I have so much to do -” began Anders, dropping his gaze to his glass of wine.

“You should go, we can spar another morning,” rumbled Fenris. “It would do you good to leave Darktown for an hour or two.”

Anders reached for his glass and was dismayed to find his hand was trembling. _So soon?_ He cradled the glass with both hands and fervently hoped the others would put it down to simple tiredness. After all, he was always tired these days. The headaches had never fully gone away (and he could fix that, he knew he could fix that, but for some reason the idea of reaching into his own brain to fix the damage wrought there terrified him even though he had done it for others so often - hadn’t he done it for that guardsman Aveline brought to him only four days ago? ... it _was_ only four days... wasn’t it?) and exhaustion was a constant companion; one of the prices he was paying for a steady consumption of lyrium. But the alternative was unthinkable.

He took a sip of wine to steady himself, aware that Fenris and Bethany were both regarding him expectantly.

“Alright,” he heard himself finally say. “That would be nice.” He even managed to smile; a brief, flickering ghost of a smile. gone as swiftly as it had come, but it seemed to satisfy Bethany.

 

***

Later, in the darkness of the bedroom, he listened to Fenris’ quiet breathing as he slept. He rested his head against the sleeping elf’s tattooed breast and felt his heart beating strong and steady, and he knew he couldn’t let Fenris walk into the Deep Roads without him.

***

“Bethany, please. Don’t go.”

“Mother, please, everyone’s looking!” Bethany’s voice was a hiss of embarrassment as she shifted from one foot to the other, acutely aware of the disapproving glare of Varric’s brother. Leandra turned to her eldest child.

“Garrett, _please_....”

Anders turned away and busied himself with checking the contents of his healing kit for what must have been the fourteenth time that morning. Though the day was warm, his hands felt cold, though they didn’t tremble. Not yet, at any rate. 

He patted his belt pouches, reassured by the feel of the small, precious vials in one. He’d counted them carefully. Two weeks, Hawke had said; Anders had carefully counted out his vials. One for each day, and five more “just in case”. Nineteen slender glass vials filled with the precious blue liquid. Of course, Bethany would have her own supply; but lately she’d been a little more reluctant to part with it, and there had been awkward questions.

He wished he’d dared buy more, but Varric was already showing signs of being suspicious about the amounts he’d been purchasing recently, and Anders was not so foolish as to risk approaching smugglers directly himself.

Not yet, at any rate.

Fenris nudged Anders then nodded over towards Hawke, who was stalking back towards the group with a face like thunder, Bethany a step behind him, her face red with embarrassment.

“Sorry about that, Bartrand,” Hawke said breezily. “All taken care of now.”

The dwarf shot him a dark look but merely grunted before turning away and shouting orders.

Hawke turned to Anders. “All ready?”

He drew a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be,” he replied. Hawke clapped him on the shoulder with a grin.

“Good man.” He turned away to speak to his sister, and Anders exhaled slowly. He was not looking forward to this.


	22. Chapter 22

It wasn’t so bad - at least at the start. The tunnels leading down beneath the surface were not so different from the smugglers’ tunnels beneath Darktown that led to the coast. Anders could almost believe they were just out on another one of Aveline’s little missions. Albeit one that also featured several dwarves outfitted for an expedition and a handful of other mercenary types, in addition to Hawke and their group.

But the deeper they went, the harder it was to hold onto that little fantasy. The air grew close and oppressive, as though the weight of miles of rock over their heads were pressing down on the very air they breathed. Anders instinctively hunched his shoulders and kept his eye on Hawke just ahead. Fenris was a constant presence at his side; occasionally, at the point where Anders felt the tension rising unbearably until he felt he must scream, the elf would gently brush his fingers against the back of Anders’ hand as though to remind him he was not alone down here; and Anders was almost pathetically grateful for that light contact. He had wondered at first why Fenris had not donned his gauntlets as usual, but after the first time he caught his breath in near-panic when a torch suddenly guttered just ahead and Fenris’ warm touch grounded him, he realised Fenris had already known what he needed - almost better than he himself.

But not even Fenris’ touch could quell the craving that itched beneath his skin. Or rather, it _could_ have - if he could bring himself to ask. And doubtless Fenris would not have questioned it but given him what he needed in a heartbeat, regardless of the pain it caused him. But Anders couldn’t, would _not_ ask that of him. He fought down the shivers when they started, and he took to carrying his staff in his hand; it was easier to control the tremors in his hand when gripping its smooth silverite shaft hard.

It was harder to quell the voices he thought he heard in the shadows, or the unpleasant suspicion that Hawke, Bethany, Varric and even Fenris were discussing him when they thought he couldn’t hear them. He was certain at least some of that whispering he couldn’t quite make out was Bethany talking to Hawke about him, even though she denied it when he cornered her during one of their rest stops to ask.

But then she would, wouldn’t she? They all would.

Maybe that was why they’d been so insistent he come with them. Hawke had his maps, they didn’t need _him_. They just wanted to be able to keep an eye on him.

The dizzy spells were coming more often, and the headache was a constant, throbbing presence - it pulsed through his skull to the rhythm of his heartbeat. The elfroot tea he drank each time they paused for a rest only dulled it a little, never quite taking it entirely away. He took to adding a few drops of lyrium to the tea when he thought no-one was looking. Only a little. Just enough to take the edge off the cravings; to silence the whispers for a little while. The thrum of magic in his veins made the darkness more bearable.

His supply was slowly dwindling. He kept tally of the passing days by the number of vials still left. As the number lessened, his anxiety grew; he was jittery, perpetually on edge, irritable. 

He thought the unclean scratching feeling in the back of his skull was just a dream until he realised he was awake but could still feel it. _Darkspawn_. He lifted his head from his pack which he’d been using as a pillow as he dozed fitfully, and stared around. There; he could still feel it. Distant - too distant to identify specifically what it was, but unmistakable.

He was trembling as he sat up, and he had to take a deep breath to steady himself as he looked around for Fenris, one hand fumbling for the pouch with the precious vials of lyrium. He managed to fumble one out but it took several tries before his shaking hands could wrest the cork loose. He downed it hurriedly, and was relieved to feel the cool wash of mana through his veins. He felt his thoughts grow clear, and mercifully his body no longer trembled as he got to his feet and reached for his staff before making his way over to the watch fire where Fenris stood guard with one of the dwarven mercenary guards in Bartrand’s employ.

“Darkspawn. Not near, but I can feel them,” he murmured in answer to Fenris’ unspoken question.

“Should we wake the others?” rumbled Fenris softly. Anders shook his head.

“Let them sleep. Whatever it is, it’s too far away for me to tell clearly what it is.”

Fenris regarded him thoughtfully. “You are certain you were not merely dreaming? Your rest has been unsettled ever since we reached the Deep Roads.”

“I am not dreaming!” Anders hissed angrily. His sibilant whisper carried unexpectedly; a couple of dwarves lifted their heads and glanced in his direction. Chagrined, Anders ducked his head. “It wasn’t a dream,” he insisted, but quieter and with less vehemence.

Fenris gestured to Anders to sit down; as the tall blond apostate lowered himself to the ground, the elf leaned forward to place the kettle back over the fire. Anders cradled his staff in his arms and stared into the fire.

“Anders,” said Fenris gently as he laid a hand over Anders’ restless fingers as they tapped on the haft of his staff; Anders’ fingers stilled. “Anders, I am afraid for you. How much lyrium have you taken today?”

Anders went still. “You don’t believe me,” he said in a shocked whisper. “You think I’m delusional.”

“Anders -”

Anders pulled roughly away from Fenris and hastily got to his feet. 

“Anders -”

“Void take you!” Anders exclaimed as he turned on his heel and strode away from the fire. He heard Fenris call his name and Hawke’s sleepy voice inquiring what was wrong, but he didn’t look back. He let his anger carry him on swift feet away from the camp, for once not caring about the dark. It was some minutes before his footsteps slowed as his wrath cooled, leaving him feeling shaken and remorseful. 

He planted the blade of his staff between two cracks in the ancient paving stones of the Deep Roads and rested his forehead against his staff as he drew a shaky breath. A wave of dizziness swept over him and he swayed then staggered. He put a hand out to steady himself against a nearby wall then slumped against the rock. His head was pounding again.

He was suddenly all too aware of how enclosed this path was; a rockfall had blocked nearly the whole width of the passageway, leaving a space scarce wide enough for a single man to walk upright. He glanced back and realised he couldn’t see the watch fire any more; the path was only dimly lit by the dull glow of luminescent lichen and moss. The way ahead was dark; he took a few faltering footsteps into the narrowed path and then his outstretched hand hit stone. The way ahead was blocked entirely.

He slid down until he was sprawled against the base of the wall, then drew his knees up towards his chest and hugged his knees, burying his face as he fought for control of his breathing. His heart was pounding in his chest and he shuddered as a cold sweat seemed to sweep over him leaving him shivering, skin clammy. The air felt too thin. He swallowed hard.

It was too dark. Trembling, he lifted a hand and tried to concentrate, but it was hard; his thoughts skittered like frightened spiders ( _Maker, why did he have to think of spiders??_ ), and it was hard to focus. His breath escaped his lips in a faint whimper as he fought to coax a small ball of magelight into existence. A small, wavering silvery light bloomed upon the palm of his hand and he almost sobbed with relief.

He heard voices calling his name, and he scrambled to his feet, glancing back in the direction he had come. He could see torches bobbing towards him out of the darkness, and then there was Fenris, and behind him Hawke and both Tethras brothers.

“As if I haven’t got enough on my plate without having to chase after mama’s boy surfacers afraid of the dark,” Bartrand was grousing. “I swear, Varric if this -” He broke off as he stared at the rockfall beyond Anders. “Oh great. That’s just wonderful. Tell me the path isn’t completely blocked.”

Fenris and Hawke ignored him as they hurried over towards Anders, relief plain upon their faces.

“Anders, we were -” began Hawke.

“It’s blocked,” Anders said abruptly. “There’s no way through. The whole roof seems to have fallen in.”

Bartrand began to swear. “Someone tell me the mage is wrong!”

Varric stepped into the narrowed path and disappeared from view briefly before re-emerging. “Sorry, Brother; Blondie’s right. We’re not going to be able to get through this way.”

Bartrand stomped off angrily, flinging his hands up in disgust and yelling for his mercenaries.

“Well, that’s done it,” sighed Varric.

Hawke and Fenris exchanged glances as Varric followed after his brother, then glanced at Anders as he rejoined them. “We’ll have to look for another way,” he told them tersely. “Nothing could get through that rock slide.” He followed after Varric, Hawke and Fenris trailing behind.

The discovery of the rockslide distracted everyone; Anders’ abrupt departure from the camp was soon forgotten. Bartrand insisted on rousing the whole camp, ordering everyone to find a way around the blocked path. Scouts were sent down the side passages; it was a few hours before they began to return. 

“There has to be a way around!” snarled Bartrand.

“Not that we could find,” replied the lead scout. “The side passages are too dangerous. We can’t get through.”

“Useless!” roared Bartrand as he punched the scout and sent him reeling, then turned on his other hired hands. “What am I paying you blighters for?” He stormed off, angry.

Varric followed him, and the brothers conferred - Bartrand gesticulating angrily, Varric’s voice calm and quiet. After a moment, Varric beckoned Hawke over. Finally Bartrand waved them both off.

“Fine, fine, you find another way around - but do it quickly!” He strode off towards his hired hands, bellowing orders to set camp once more and set to work clearing the passage as Varric and Hawke rejoined the others.

“So now we are scouts?” remarked Fenris, raising an eyebrow.

“Unless you have any better ideas? It could take days to dig out that rock,” replied Hawke, gesturing over his shoulder with a jerk of his thumb.

“I’m not hanging around for days!” exclaimed Anders, alarmed, one hand stealing unconsciously to his belt pouch. “There _has_ to be another way around!” He turned away, rubbing his forehead as his temples throbbed painfully. “This is why I left the Wardens,” he muttered. “I _hate_ the blighted Deep Roads....”

“Er, I hate to add to your burdens, my friends, but I fear I must,” interjected a dwarf as he approached them apologetically. Hawke turned with a frown.

“Bodahn, the supplier,” murmured Varric; Hawke’s face cleared. “Yes, of course. What’s the problem, Bodahn?”

“I fear my boy Sandal has wandered off down one of those side passages; I couldn’t help but overhear, and... well... if you should be exploring those side passages....?”

“Of course,” nodded Hawke. “We’ll keep an eye out for him, Bodahn.”

“Oh thank you, messere; he’s a good boy, is Sandal, he just... doesn’t understand danger like he should.”

They gathered around Hawke as he studied Anders’ maps. After brief conferring, they headed towards the nearest right-hand passage.

“I swore I would never set foot in the Deep Roads again,” Anders muttered to himself. He frowned, and shook his head irritably; the unpleasant scratching in his head seemed to be getting louder. “Hawke... there are darkspawn down here. Be on your guard.”

Bethany shuddered and stepped closer to her brother as Fenris loosened his greatsword in its sheathe.

They investigated one dead end after another, backtracking frequently when the path ahead was blocked by another rockfall. It seemed to Anders that each time they had to backtrack and try another path, that they were coming closer and closer to the darkspawn. The feeling was stronger now; his grip was white-knuckled upon his staff, a cold sweat sheening his forehead.

“Close... very close....” he muttered. 

“What’s close?” asked Bethany, glancing back nervously; his anxiety was contagious, it seemed, and they were all on edge.

“Hurlocks. Eight of them. Very close,” he muttered tersely. “They’re just... Hawke, watch out!” he shouted in warning, as abruptly the group of darkspawn erupted almost from the very rocks at their feet and moved almost as one directly towards the rogue. 

Hawke leapt back as Anders twirled his staff overhead and gave fervent thanks that he’d downed that vial of lyrium upon awakening as he sent a lightning bolt streaking overhead to scatter the hurlocks even as Bethany began to throw fireballs at them and Bianca sang death in Varric’s hands.

There was a bright silvery blur of blue-white light and then Fenris was amongst the hurlocks, hewing them apart with ease. Bethany had to hold off on the fire spells for fear of hitting the elf, but Anders leapt forward and cast paralysis on the nearest three hurlocks, freezing them to the spot whilst Fenris dispatched the others; Anders drove the blade of his staff through the throat of one, whilst Varric and Hawke dropped the other two with ease. Anders moved forward to take out another with his staff; as it fell, he turned in time to see Fenris take the head off the last hurlock in a spray of blood. Anders glanced around, his heart still hammering in his chest.

“Anyone need healing?” he asked.

“No, thanks to your warning,” grinned Hawke.

“Did we get them all?” asked Bethany?

“Looks like it, Sunshine,” replied Varric as he flipped a corpse over with the toe of his boot. “Ugly things, aren’t they?”

“Let’s move on,” said Fenris.

“Be careful; I can feel more darkspawn down here,” warned Anders, glancing around as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“How does that work?” wondered Bethany. “I mean - how is it you can feel them?”

“It’s a Warden thing. We can feel the taint. We can feel each other as well; the longer you’ve been a warden, the better you get at it.”

“What does it feel like?” asked Bethany as Anders grimaced.

“It’s... hard to describe,” he replied slowly. “It’s like... filthy claws, scraping against the back of my mind.”

Bethany shuddered. “It sounds horrible. Is it always this bad for you down here?”

“No,” he replied distractedly as he glanced around, trying to get a better feel of where the darkspawn were. “It’s frequently worse. Just wait till the screaming nightmares begin - I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to that part.”

“How awful!” Bethany exclaimed, horrified. He glanced back at her.

“Be thankful you’ll never experience it,” he said quietly. “There are some parts of being a Grey Warden you can never walk away from. Never thought I’d be actively seeking them out though,” he added as he rolled his shoulders to try and dislodge the crawling sensation creeping up his spine. 

“If you can feel darkspawn and other Grey Wardens... does that mean the darkspawn can feel _you_?” asked Bethany.

Anders lurched to a halt and stared at her, aghast. 

“I’m sorry, forget I said anything!” said Bethany hastily. He stared at her for a moment longer, then started walking again. He could feel his heart racing again; he patted his belt pouch and bit his lip. 

“Low on lyrium?” Bethany murmured as she stepped in closer and took his arm.

“No,” he lied. She stared at him, and he glanced away. He glanced back as he felt her press something cold and hard into his hand.

“Liar,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t. But... just be careful, OK? And don’t tell Garrett.” She stepped away.

He glanced around; Hawke and Varric were studying the map, and Fenris was inspecting something he’d stepped in, wiping the sole of his foot on his leggings with a distasteful grimace. Anders hastily uncorked the lyrium and downed it in one, then moved to join Hawke and Varric.

He wished he were anywhere but there.


	23. Chapter 23

Five caves, four groups of darkspawn, three rockfalls, two packs of deepstalkers (and one splitting headache on Anders’ part) later, they finally found Sandal. As they’d passed further into the Deep Roads, Anders had found himself growing more and more distracted by the glowing blue veins of lyrium that snaked through the rock almost like something living, the glow from the crystals bathing the dark tunnels in an eery yet almost tranquil blue light. It made his blood sing; between the lyrium and the pounding in his head, it was becoming harder and harder to think straight and his gaze was often distracted. He didn’t see the worried looks the others gave each other; he barely even noticed when Fenris’ gauntleted fingers curled about his wrist, drawing him away when he seemed to drift too close to the enchanting yet toxic mineral.

The lyrium was forgotten as they emerged into yet another cave to a most unexpected sight.

“Well, I’ll be a nug’s uncle,” said Varric slowly as they stared at the dwarf youth, surrounded by the bodies of dead darkspawn. “Isn’t that Bodahn’s boy?” They blinked at the sight of Sandal, idly scratching his backside unconcernedly as he stared up at what appeared to be the glowing, petrified form of an ogre.

Hawke stared around at the dead bodies, toeing one with his boot before descending down to the floor of the cavern, Varric a step behind. Bethany stumbled as she followed; Anders caught her arm absently.

“Careful, Bethany,” he murmured.

“Caught my foot,” she muttered. She gave him a brief smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes as she turned to follow Hawke, going to stand beside him. Anders frowned slightly as she pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes briefly. Maybe the Deep Roads was giving her a headache too - or perhaps it was proximity to all the raw lyrium. Maker only knew it was certainly making _his_ head throb. He shrugged and followed after as Fenris brought up the rear.

“Hello,” said Sandal, his voice slow and almost dreamy as he gave them a vacant smile.

“He survived this entire time!” said Bethany, impressed. 

“Talk about dumb luck!” Anders exclaimed, eyeing the ogre with curiosity. Hawke nodded and gave a low whistle before moving forward to crouch in front of Sandal with a friendly smile.

“I’d really like to know how you managed to kill all of them!” he remarked as Sandal gave him an answering smile, then held out a small stone. As Hawke took it and turned it over in his hand, staring at the glowing silvery glyph inscribed on one side, Sandal grinned.

“Boom.”

Hawke’s eyebrows rose, and he glanced at the petrified ogre. “And how did you do that?”

Sandal looked at the ogre. “Not enchantment,” he said, then turned away.

“Smart boy,” murmured Varric speculatively, as Hawke glanced down at the stone in his hand. The dwarf jerked his head after Sandal, who was heading towards a cave exit on the other side of the cavern, “Come on, we still need to find a way past that collapse,” he added.

They found a short flight of cracked stone steps and headed up, finding themselves in a large passage, paved with cracked stones. They’d barely taken a few steps into the hallway when Anders felt the telltale itching in the back of his skull suddenly intensify. “More darkspawn,” he called out as he unslung his staff; Bethany groaned beside him as she readied her own staff. She looked a little nauseated; he couldn’t say he could blame her. As the hurlocks lurched towards them, their breath rank and fetid, he felt more than a little queasy himself. He was low on mana, but he didn’t dare take more lyrium so soon. He reached for a blast capsule, and the fight was on.

They fought their way through two more waves of hurlocks before they had reached the end of the passageway, which opened out into a large hall. By the time they had dispatched the last of the darkspawn, even Fenris was looking ready to drop. Hawke called a halt, and they made their way over to another flight of stairs to sit, catch their breath and a bite to eat.

Anders dropped gracelessly down onto a step with a low groan and lowered his head to his hands to massage his temples. The last of his mana had fizzled away during the last fight, leaving him hollow and empty inside and more weary than he could ever remember feeling. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and when Fenris handed him some cold rations he thought he might throw up at sight of the unappetising waybread and dried sausage. He accepted them with a cautious nod however, and began to eat without appetite.

The white-haired warrior folded his legs gracefully and lowered himself onto the step next to Anders, busying himself with his own food. Anders was only vaguely aware of his presence at first; he could see an intruding vein of lyrium across the hall, its blue glow tantalising in the darkness. It seemed to sing silently; and he felt his blood stirring and quickening in response. A glimmer of quicksilver in his veins; not enough, by far. 

Fenris’ fingers closing over his own brought him back to awareness with a start. He turned his head to find himself being regarded by intent green eyes. Fenris’ fingers tightened briefly, and Anders dropped his gaze to their hands. His own was laid over the lyrium pouch; he had no memory of having reached for it. He glanced up at Fenris, startled.

He saw no censure or anger in Fenris’ eyes however; only deep weariness and - was that... concern? A flicker of sorrow? Anders swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, I just... I, I’m sorry -”

Fenris laid a finger upon his lips, silencing the blond apostate, then replaced his finger with his own lips. Anders froze at first, startled; then he let his eyes fall closed as he leaned into the kiss. He felt Fenris’ hands gently cradle his face, warm and comforting; and then the thrill of lyrium’s kiss flooding his body like white fire, his magic reawakening at its song. He moaned into Fenris’ mouth as he clutched at the elf like a drowning man clinging to a branch for dear life. He couldn’t think; as their lips parted, he couldn’t speak. It was all he could do to simply remember to breathe.

“Broody, what in -” Varric’s voice was gruff and startled. Anders managed to open his eyes; the cavern was lit up by the blazing silver light of Fenris’ brands. The blue glow of the raw lyrium veins in the rock was drowned out by the shining brilliance of the elf’s power.

Fenris let the brands fade slowly as Anders exhaled a shaky breath. “Thank you, love,” he managed finally, his voice little more than a husky whisper.

“Yes, well,” Hawke finally interjected, clearing his throat. “Perhaps we ought to push on. The sooner we find a way round that rockfall, the sooner we can be back at camp.”

*****

“A dragon. Of _course_ there’s a dragon.” Hawke’s voice was flat as they stared up at the immense beast.

“We’re hundreds of feet below the surface! How on earth did a dragon get down here?” exclaimed Bethany as it soared around the lofty ceiling of the vast chamber.

“Less wondering, more smiting!” yelped Anders as the dragon abruptly decided swooping on the small noisy humanoids was the order of the day. Evidently it had woken up cranky. Anders couldn’t say he entirely blamed it, even as he readied his staff with one hand and reached for an ice blast capsule with the other. Fenris’ kiss seemed to have reawoken some small dregs of his power, but he might need that to heal the others after they survived this fight.

_If_ they survived it, he silently amended as they were all forced to dive aside to dodge its searing fiery breath. He hurled the capsule and had the satisfaction of seeing tendrils of ice swiftly curl about the dragon’s limbs as it fell crashing to the ground; his satisfaction was short-lived as it whipped its head around and fastened its enraged gaze upon him and inhaled.

“Andraste’s flaming _arse!_ ” he exclaimed as he dove to one side; a wave of heat washed over him as flames roared over the spot where he had been standing only a few seconds before.

“No, but it was nearly yours, Blondie!” called back Varric as the dragon was effectively distracted by a volley of crossbow bolts to its own nether regions. It reared up and turned to glare at the dwarf as Bethany’s bolt of ice hit it square in the chest. Hawke darted in from the shadows to hamstring the beast - or would have, if his blade hadn’t skittered ineffectually off the beast’s scales.

“Oh hah hah, very fun-” began Anders sarcastically, then broke off as the dragon turned and glared at him. “Ohhhh _shit._ ”

The dragon reared up with a roar, flapping its wings as it glared down at the small figure of the blond mage; there was a streak of brilliant white light and then the dragon shrieked in fury before spinning around. Anders threw himself to the ground to avoid being knocked flying by the beast’s tail; as he glanced around, he could see Bethany had done likewise.

Fenris was laying into the dragon with his immense two-handed sword; the dragon inhaled sharply before unleashing another blast of flame at the elf, but it passed harmlessly through his incorporeal form as he phased his body, becoming a ghost of pure light as he darted forward. The blade of his sword was all too corporeal however as it sliced deeply into the reptilian hide then wrenched its way through muscle and sinew. Momentarily solid for a moment, Fenris reversed his stroke to hew again at the dragon.

The dragon spun, cat-like, and lashed out with a talon. Fenris was sent flying.

Anders sprang to his feet, launching himself at the dragon with a scream. He leapt towards the dragon’s back and swung his staff overhead then buried the blade deeply in the monstrous reptile’s spine. He clung on as it reared, bellowing in pain and fury; there was a flash of light as Bethany’s spell exploded across the dragon’s flank, a ball of flame singeing its hide. One of Varric’s bolts found its mark and the beast reeled, blinded in one eye, even as Hawke drew back his arm then snapped his hand forward, his blade flying straight and true to bury itself in the dragon’s throat.

Anders grimly clung on as the dragon staggered; bracing himself, he wrenched the blade, twisting it in the wound. He could feel the staff shudder as the blade ground against bone. Abruptly the monster’s hind legs gave out and it collapsed to the ground. Hawke leapt atop the beast and plunged a long knife deep through its one remaining eye. It gave one last shudder and then lay still.

In the immediate aftermath of the dragon’s demise, the cavern seemed overwhelmingly quiet; the silence disturbed only by the sounds of their ragged breathing. Anders fought to catch his breath, suddenly all too aware of numerous bruises and aches all over his body. He clutched the haft of his staff still, half afraid he might fall over if he let go. He glanced around.

Hawke was helping his sister back to her feet, as Varric bent down to retrieve his bolt from the eye of the dead dragon. Sandal was staring at the beast with wide eyes. Anders glanced around for Fenris.

He felt his blood run cold as his eyes fell upon the still form of the elf. Fenris was sprawled upon his back, unmoving, his face turned away; the snow-white locks of hair were soaked a dark red with blood.

“No,” breathed Anders, then again louder, “No!” He leapt down from the dragon’s corpse and raced to Fenris’ side, throwing himself down upon his knees carelessly as he reached for the unconscious elf. “Don’t be dead, please, _please_ don’t be dead,” he muttered fervently to himself as he carefully turned the elf’s face towards him. He stared down at the pale blood-flecked face, and felt a chill.

Fenris wasn’t breathing.


	24. Chapter 24

For a moment, he froze. He couldn’t breathe. His fingers clenched Fenris’ leather cuirass as he stared down at the elf, stunned. He was only distantly aware of the others as they gathered around them. He heard voices, but no words. 

Someone was kneeling down on the other side of Fenris’ body. Talking to him. The words made no sense.

Nothing made sense. Not any more.

The words slowly penetrated. A hand, holding out a vial of blue liquid.

_Bethany. Lyrium._

_Yes._

He took the vial without really seeing it; he knocked back the contents mechanically, and suddenly he could breathe again. Colour and sound flooded his senses once more, and power surged in his veins - power that he channelled out, down, into the body before him. He closed his eyes, and the world ceased to exist as he plunged into a different world - one of blood, of sinew, of flesh and bone.

There - there! Still yet a flutter of life; the thread thin but still there. He reached for it, even as he reached within for the answering magic. It was a whispering kiss beneath his skin; a soothing wash of energy that he let flow into the broken body beneath his fingers. It sought out torn muscle, bleeding veins, ripped arteries, shattered bone; it wove anew, restoring, reawakening life in a body that had all but surrendered to death. He was aware of the whispering voices of spirits, their ghostly touch upon his face; he welcomed their aid, as he had so many times before. _Spirit mage. Healer. Yes._

Fenris drew a shuddering breath. And then another.

Anders was aware of it on two levels; the waking awareness of his external senses, but also the innate inward sense of the healer, his consciousness extended into the body before him. His heart beat in time to that of Fenris; each breath he took was shared with the elf. He could barely tell the pulsing of blood in his own ears from the rhythm of blood in Fenris’ veins. The ache in his head, the trembling of his hands, the metallic taste in his mouth, the nausea - even the constant unclean scratching in the back of his mind that whispered of taint and the nearness of darkspawn; all these were forgotten in the here and now of healing. He heard only the beat of a heart reawoken and the encouraging whispers of spirits about them; saw only flesh made whole, felt only the flow of magic from his body into that of Fenris.

He was oblivious when Bethany set another vial of lyrium to his lips; he drank mechanically, unaware of the bitter argument between the Hawke siblings or Varric’s attempts to make peace between them. He licked lyrium absently from his lips as the power continued to flow.

He reached deeper, willing his own life into Fenris, unaware of the murmured words that fell from his lips: _Don’t go. Come back. Don’t leave me. I love you._ And over and over, the name: _Fenris. Fenris. Fenris._ Each intonation of the name a heartbeat, a call, beckoning the elf’s spirit back to his body. The silvery light of his healing surrounded them both like a softer echo of Fenris’ own blazing brilliance, though Anders was oblivious to it, to the startled glances their companions exchanged.

It seemed eternity, measured in heartbeats.

“Mage.”

“Don’t go. Fenris. Fenris, come back. Fenris.”

“Mage, I am going nowhere.”

“Fenris, don’t -”

Fingers grasped his wrists firmly. “ _Anders._ Look at me. I am still here.”

Anders gasped as his eyes flickered open; he stared down at Fenris. The elf regarded him with one eyebrow arched, and then gave a slow, rare smile.

Anders gave a small smile in return before his eye rolled back in his head and he slumped. Varric caught him before his head could hit the floor; his last thought was to wonder why Sandal was staring at him and smiling.

 

****

Fenris regarded the Hawke siblings thoughtfully as they continued arguing, then exchanged glances with Varric. The dwarf raised an eyebrow meaningfully and jerked his head almost imperceptibly towards Bethany and Hawke. Fenris sighed silently and carded his fingers through the unconscious Anders’ hair.

He had awoken to find the mage bent over him, his eyes closed and face wet with tears as he murmured pleas for the elf to return to him, the air around them both filled with a soft, silvery glow. He had not expected to wake at all; he remembered the dragon’s talons ripping into his side, a crushing rending pain that tore the breath from his lungs; sailing through the air, then hitting the ground hard, his head striking stone mercifully stealing his consciousness as he drowned in his own blood. To open his eyes and feel only a faint lingering ache in his limbs seemed little short of a miracle.

Anders had fainted through sheer exhaustion, and now he lay unconscious as Fenris cradled his head in his lap, stroking the dishevelled dark blond hair. He glanced again at Hawke and Bethany, and shook his head.

“Hawke, peace! Bethany did what she did to save my life. She does not have Anders’ gift of healing; all she could do was give him the means to do so himself. Would you rather I had died?”

The rogue turned to him with a look of exasperation. “No, I don’t but -” He ran a hand through his tousled black hair and exhaled noisily through his nose. “He’s lyrium-addled enough as it is. How many times did you have to steer him away from those lyrium veins, Fenris? We both know where he’ll end up. Bethany _can’t_ keep giving him lyrium; it’s killing him. And what happens when the lyrium runs out? What then?”

Fenris sighed and glanced down at Anders’ still face. In the deep sleep of exhaustion, the lines of care and worry were smoothed, lending his face a youthful air that belied his age. Fenris was suddenly struck by the realisation he had no idea how old the mage truly was.

“Too young to die,” he murmured to himself as he brushed a stray hair away from Anders’ closed good eye then stroked his cheek. Anders stirred slightly, sighing softly as he turned his head blindly into Fenris’ touch before growing still once more.

“But he _will_ die, Fenris, if he keeps taking lyrium like this,” said Hawke gravely.

“I will not let him die,” growled Fenris. “Do you forget I carry a kingdom’s ransom in lyrium within my flesh, Hawke? Whilst I still breathe, I will not let him suffer, no matter the cost.”

“You’d exchange one addiction for another!” exclaimed Hawke. “How is that any better?”

“Garrett, please, he’s only -” Bethany began, even as Fenris drew himself up with a snarl.

“And what would you do, Hawke? Would you stand by and watch him crippled by lyrium withdrawal?” His lip curled in a sneer.

“Easy, Broody,” said Varric placatingly. “You don’t want to wake Blondie,” he added, as the mage stirred restlessly.

Fenris lowered his voice, but his tone was still venomous as he glared at Hawke. “Have you ever seen someone go through lyrium withdrawal, Hawke? Do you know what would happen to him? Puking, shivering, feverish, delirious. The amount he’s been taking, he may very well fall into a coma. He could die; I have seen it happen. He would be helpless, unable to care for himself; and he would suffer such agonising pain as you could barely dream of. It could well be the death of him. Is that what you wish, Hawke? You wish to see your friend suffer through such torment - here, of all places?”

“No,” said Hawke, quieter; he seemed shaken. “No, I wouldn’t. I - you’re right, I had no idea.”

“I was trying to help him,” Bethany said in a small voice. She covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

“I can see that now,” said Hawke, abashed, as he slipped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug.

“Maker, what a mess,” Varric shook his head. “So what now? Blondie can’t keep drinking lyrium forever - it’ll run out eventually. You can keep him going, Broody, but at what cost - to either of you? He’s practically a nervous wreck as it is, between his lyrium cravings and just being down here.”

“I... do not know,” said Fenris quietly.

“We’ll work something out,” said Hawke, with a confidence he wished he truly felt.

“Finding a way around that rockfall would be a good start,” mused Varric. “The sooner we do that, the sooner we can get on with this expedition - and the sooner we can all be back on the surface and out of these damned tunnels.”

“You’re a dwarf; I thought dwarves were at home underground?” remarked Fenris.

“Hah! Not this dwarf,” answered Varric. “I’m beginning to see Blondie’s point of view on the Deep Roads.”

“Well, we’re not going anywhere whilst Anders is out for the count,” said Hawke. “We may as well make camp here for now.” He spotted Sandal sitting a little way away, staring at Anders. “What say you, Sandal?”

“Enchantment,” nodded Sandal.


	25. Chapter 25

It was the thrum of lyrium’s call and the answering stir of his blood that drew Anders slowly back to consciousness. He could feel warm hands resting against his collarbones, fingers splayed against his skin, beneath the thin worn shirt he wore under the heavy feather-pauldroned coat; feel warm breath upon his face. He opened his good eye slowly and stared up at Fenris, blinking in confusion.

Fenris’ face was lit up subtly from beneath, and Anders realised he was lying with his head in Fenris’ lap as the elf crouched over him. The white-haired warrior had slipped off his gauntlets then slid his bare hands into the wide collar of Anders’ coat, dipping down beneath the neck hem of his shirt to press lyrium-lined fingers to his skin before lighting the brands.

“Love?” he husked quietly, and Fenris stared down at him then let the silvery light die away.

“How do you feel?” asked the elf quietly, letting his hands rest against Anders’ chest for a moment longer before beginning to slip them free.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?” asked Anders as he caught Fenris’ wrists briefly. He held Fenris’ gaze for a moment, then closed his eyes and kissed Fenris’ palms, each in turn, before releasing him.

“I am quite well,” rumbled the warrior. “Your healing restored me, though I think you exhausted yourself in the process.”

“I don’t have the reserves of strength I used to have,” sighed Anders. “The magic never lasts long enough; the lyrium just doesn’t last.”

“I do not think it was only the lyrium you were drawing on,” said Fenris slowly. “Just before you fainted, the light from your magic... it was... different.”

“Different? How so?” asked Anders slowly, frowning.

“It was... more silver in colour. A pure white rather than the blue your healing magic customarily is.”

“Silver?” exclaimed Anders. “Are you _sure_?” He remembered the voices of the healing spirits around him, and himself reaching deeper for the magic. His good eye widened; he pushed himself upright as Fenris straightened. Anders lifted a hand and stared at it. The effects of Fenris’ lyrium had died as swiftly as the light, the power draining away like water but maybe....

He reached inside and felt nothing.

No - wait. Not nothing. There was something... was that... a tiny spark? A faint glimmer, deep within?

He closed his eyes and _reached_. He was distantly aware of Fenris speaking his name in a questioning tone, but he was too intent on reaching into that place deep inside himself where he could feel the merest glimmer of power. He could feel sweat bead upon his brow; a droplet rolled down his face as his body trembled slightly with the effort, but he ignored the discomfort as he strained to reach that tantalising glimpse of power.

He heard Bethany exclaim, and opened his eyes to see a faint wisp of light dancing upon his upturned palm. It died even as he stared at it, what meagre resources of energy he had already drained by that small effort; but though he was left feeling empty and weak, it was not like before. He could still feel that place inside where his magic resided; it was merely drained of power - but it was there. Even without lyrium, he could still feel it.

“Maker. It’s come back. My magic finally came back. It’s weak, but - oh Maker, it’s really there!” he said, his voice shaking with heartfelt relief. He laughed - almost an hysterical giggle, and then suddenly he was crying. He felt Fenris’ arms close around him, and then Bethany was kneeling down beside him, catching one of his hands in hers and squeezing it sympathetically and that was okay too because she _knew_ , she understood in a way Fenris couldn’t, even though Fenris loved him, and oh Maker but he was still a mage, he was still _him_ , even if just that small act of pulling magefire from nothing had left him wiped out and exhausted.

It took some time before Anders was able to pull himself back together enough for them to consider breaking camp and moving on. His breath still caught in little hitches periodically as they broke their fast before packing and stowing away bedrolls and gear, but once the initial storm of emotion had passed he was calmer and happier. He had no mana to speak of, but he could at least still feel his connection to the Fade; he kept catching himself reaching subconsciously for it, over and over, just to feel it was _there_ , that it hadn’t slipped away from him once more. Maybe it would just take a little time for the energy to build up again, and in the meantime at least he could use lyrium to top it up. He no longer _needed_ the glowing blue liquid just to feel alive and normal again - he could just take it when he needed that extra bit of power. 

Except it seemed his body didn’t quite see it that way; after an hour or two, he found his hands had started trembling, and nausea was welling up inside. He tried to ignore it, but as they headed on deeper into the Deep Roads it became harder and harder; his head had started to ache again as well, making it harder to concentrate. He kept finding himself somehow drifting over towards the veins of lyrium in the walls.

In his current state, it took him a while to figure it out. Of course, he’d been taking the lyrium daily for months now. He couldn’t just stop it dead; by this point, his body practically needed it just to function. He was a healer; he should have realised this. He should have known better. 

“Anders,” murmured Bethany as she paused beside him when they stopped to check Anders’ maps. “You’re trembling. Have you... run out?”

“No,” he answered quietly, though he found himself automatically patting his belt pouch as though to reassure himself. “I just didn’t take any this morning. Well, whatever time it was that I woke up,” he amended. “I’m not entirely sure what day this is or whether it’s day or night any more. Bloody Deep Roads.”

“Is that wise?” she asked, looking worried. “Not taking it, I mean.”

“No,” he admitted ruefully. She stared at him and slowly raised one eyebrow, then wordlessly held out a vial.

“Beth, I _can’t_ keep taking your lyrium! You don’t have that much left yourself - what if you need it?”

“Right now, it’s fairly obvious that you need it more,” she said firmly. “Go on, take it - Maker knows it’s not as though having you at full power is going to be a _bad_ thing, now is it? Particularly if there are more dragons around here.” She glanced around nervously.

“Point,” conceded Anders as he knocked back the lyrium.

He hadn’t realised just how the symptoms had crept up on him until they started to receded - the headache dulling to a background throb, his hands growing steady, the ache in his joints easing, his stomach no longer feeling rebellious. He felt less jittery and on edge, too, though that damnable scratching in the back of his mind was still enough to keep him alert and nervous.

“Anders?” asked Fenris quietly as he moved closer, voice pitched low. Even though Anders was well aware that Fenris knew of his addiction, he couldn’t quell the surge of embarrassed guilt he felt as the elf eyed the empty vial still clutched in his hand. Hastily he thrust it into a pocket and turned away, but Fenris’ hand upon his wrist checked him.

“Anders?” repeated Fenris quietly.

“I’m fine, it’s nothing,” said Anders tersely, not lifting his eyes. He could feel Fenris’ gaze upon him but refused to meet it. “Look, the others are waiting; we should go.” He pulled away, and Fenris let his hand fall.

Somehow, the elven warrior’s failure to press the point made Anders’ guilt only the more worse.

“Oh, now this is more like it!” called Varric from somewhere ahead. “Anders, can I have a look at that map again? I think we’ve found our way round at last!”

“Not before time,” muttered Anders as he made his way over towards the dwarf, pulling out the much-creased and folded maps once more.

***

They had indeed found their detour around the rockfall; just beyond the broken rock arch, they found the entrance to what appeared to be some immense, abandoned dwarven thaig, abandoned for centuries. Retracing their footsteps to where they had left Bartrand and his mercenaries took far less time than finding their way around the detour in the first place, and it was only a matter of a few hours before Varric and his brother led the way into the primeval thaig, Hawke and his small band only a few paces behind as the rest of the crew brought up the rear. There had been a joyous reunion between Bodahn and his son Sandal; they now made their way with their small donkey laden with supplies just a short distance behind Anders and Fenris.

As they emerged into a vast hall lit dimly by veins of lyrium in the walls and an indistinct red glow of luminescent mosses, Bartrand let out a long, low whistle. “Holy shit,” he breathed.

“Is this what you were expecting?” asked Varric as they stared up at the lofty vaulting arches and high walkways, the ancient carvings from an age long gone that seemed somehow strange and alien even by comparison to dwarven carving.

“I thought... an abandoned thaig, something old, but... what _is_ this?” said Bartrand in a hushed whisper.

“How did you even know it was here?” asked Hawke, his voice lacking its usual confidence as he stared in awed amazement at the feat of ancient engineering and building that dwarfed them in the looming darkness.

“Old scavenger tales,” replied Bartrand slowly. “After the Blight. A week below the surface, they said, but nobody believed them....”

“Looks like they were right,” replied Varric.

“Make camp here!” ordered Bartrand. “We need to look around.”

They set camp swiftly, and Bodahn set to work with Sandal to prepare the evening meal. The rest of the group spread out slowly in twos and threes to explore the nearest parts of the thaig before returning for the meal.

“I don’t get it. Nothing in this thaig makes any sense,” Bartrand remarked to Varric and Hawke as they ate. “We’re well below the Deep Roads. Whatever dwarves lived here, they came long before the First Blight. But where are the statues of Paragons? I don’t recognise these markings on the walls or anything in the rubble.”

Hawke shrugged. “Who knows how old these ruins are?” he said, mopping up stew with a hunk of dark bread. “Maybe your people were different back then.”

Bartrand snorted as he tore into a chicken leg then waved the bone at Hawke, shreds of meat still clinging to it. “I know enough about our history to know we haven’t changed much. Dwarves have been mired in tradition for many ages. These dwarves may have been unique. If so, I hope they kept their valuables close at hand.” He laughed, a mirthless bark, before sinking his teeth into the chicken leg again.

Talk turned to musings of what they might find then slowly wound down. Watches were set, and gradually people retreated to bedrolls to seek what sleep they may.

Anders found Fenris had laid their bedrolls together, and as the blond apostate stretched himself out to rest, he felt Fenris spoon up against him, one arm draping comfortingly across his hip. He smiled drowsily, and was soon fast asleep.

It seemed only a short while later that Fenris was gently shaking him awake.

“Morning,” rumbled the elf quietly in explanation as Anders sat up slowly. He handed a mug of tea and a bowl of porridge to the still-sleepy mage with a small smile before rising to go seek his own breakfast.

The camp was gripped by an expectant air that morning; no-one dawdled over their breakfast, and in no time at all it seemed bed rolls had been stowed away and the scouting parties were ready to set out to reconnoitre the primeval thaig and uncover its mysterious secrets - and, hopefully, its treasures.

Hawke led their small group off down one of the narrow side routes, away from Bartrand’s other sellswords and hirelings. They made their way past broken masonry through what might once have been a street; it was hard to tell for certain. The faint red glow of ancient lanterns lit by the Maker only knew what arcane technology or magic beckoned them on. 

“Hmm, whatever’s through there seems mostly still intact,” mused Varric as he gestured towards an archway, lit by the crimson glow from beyond. “Think we’ll find anything?” His tone was one of boredom; for a dwarf, he seemed entirely unimpressed with a thaig that must have been ancient even in the early days of Orzammar.

“Bartrand is far more enthralled with this place than you are,” joked Hawke.

“Unlike him, I wasn’t born in Orzammar,” replied Varric. “Believe me, I wouldn’t even be down here if there weren’t likely to be a profit in it. The entire place gives me the chills.”

“You’re not the only one,” murmured Anders quietly.

“I just hope this is going to be worth it,” continued Varric, glancing at the archway ahead.

They descended down a long flight of steps that led to yet another hall, then another, and then a third. A flight of stairs led up from that one into a larger cavern. The entrance was blocked by two immense iron-bound doors; one stood slightly ajar, and they were able to squeeze through one after the other. 

A tall flight of stairs in this chamber led up to a high dais; the moment Anders stepped through the doorway he could feel something somehow calling to him from that dais. Something up there was singing silently, and he could feel his blood surge in answer.

“There’s... something up there,” he said slowly. “Listen! Can you feel it?”

Hawke paused and stared at him, then raised an eyebrow at Bethany, who was frowning and shaking her head, distracted.

“Beth?”

“I... don’t know,” she said slowly. “I feel _something_ , but....”

“What do you feel, Anders?” asked Fenris quietly.

“I don’t know,” he confessed quietly. “Something that feels almost familiar and yet....” 

He led the way up the stairs.

Atop the dais they found a large block of golden stone - perhaps an altar, though to what god they could not have said. Some sort of idol stood in the centre, and the moment Anders set eyes upon it he knew that this was what had been calling him.

“Is that... lyrium?” asked Hawke as Anders drew nearer, drawn inexorably towards it. His blood was singing in counterpart to the haunting, hypnotic threnody that seemed to resonate all through his body, right down to his bones. As one in a dream, he reached a hand slowly out towards the idol.

 _Red lyrium._ He knew it the moment his fingertips brushed the metal; cool and yet somehow _alive_. “Definitely magic,” he murmured. “Not the good kind either.” He could feel waves of palpable malevolence radiating off the metal even as it sang alluringly to him; he shuddered, enthralled in spite of himself.

“Doesn’t look like any kind of lyrium I’ve ever seen,” remarked Varric.

“What have you found?” called Bartrand from the bottom of the stairs.

“Come and see this, Bartrand!” Varric called back. “An idol made out of pure lyrium, I think. Could be worth a fortune,” he added, as his brother climbed the stairs to the dais. 

Bartrand let out a low whistle as he stared at the idol. “You could be right. Excellent find.” He hefted it up with one hand, and Anders had to bite his lip against the urge to cry out, to grasp the idol to himself. It _sang_ to him, maddeningly; he could barely think straight.

He was barely aware of Varric remarking that they should look around further and see what else they might find. He was having to fight the urge to lunge after Bartrand and snatch back the idol; he deliberately turned away, clenching his fists hard around the haft of his staff to still the violent trembling that seemed to have come over him.

A loud, screeching sound caught their attention, and they all spun around to stare at the door as it closed behind Bartrand.

“ _NO!!_ ” screamed Anders. He threw himself down the stairs and pelted at full speed after the retreating form of Bartrand and the narrowing slit as the door swung closed. He flung himself at it as it slammed shut with a dreadfully final clang.

He screamed as he pounded at the door. They were locked in. Trapped.


	26. Chapter 26

He was shut in. The stone walls were crowding in; he couldn’t breathe. The door was shut fast; it did not so much as shudder as he beat his fists against it. 

Shut in again. Last time, it had been a whole year.

He could still feel the touch of the red lyrium, and it was maddeningly, tantalisingly _there_ and yet not. He wanted - no, he _needed_ it, a burning need far beyond words, and it was gone, and the door was shut and would not yield and _damn_ it -

The ceiling was too low. Too damned low. The weight of thousand tons of rock suspended above bore down upon his mind - days, _weeks_ of stone between him and the surface. 

Days, weeks... months... a year. It had been a year. His mind kept circling back to that, to memories of another time that he’d tried to forget no matter how much it plagued him in the dark hours of the night; drawn over and over again to relive that eternity of darkness and the shut door. He slammed his hands against it again with a scream of frustration and fear.

His nails were broken; when did that happen? He had no memory of scrabbling his fingers frantically across the rough stone surface; and yet the marks of his blood on stone were clear.

Who was that screaming? Was that him? When had he started screaming? ( _When had he stopped? When did his voice break, those long days in darkness?_ )

There were hands upon him; hands gripping his wrists gently yet firmly, pulling him away from the door, the way out; they spoke but the words made no sense; they didn’t _know_ , they didn’t _understand_ , and he could still hear the red lyrium and it was driving him mad with longing - a bone-deep, aching, burning _need_ that drove almost all rational thought clean out of his head. It hurt - dear Maker, it _hurt!_ \- like the pain of lyrium withdrawal only much, much worse. It was like white-hot needles being driven into every joint; lightning racing through nerves, until his whole body ached and screamed and thoughts fragmented. He knew only that the red lyrium was gone and the door was shut. All awareness of where he was had gone. He only knew that he had to get out, and he needed the idol.

All was _need_. _Need_ , pain; the red of blood and fire, the black of despair.

Something hard slammed against the back of his skull and he dropped to his knees heavily, stunned. He lifted his eyes dazedly to stare up at Fenris, who still held his wrists firmly; as Anders tried to focus his eyes on the elf, Fenris drew a relieved breath as he realised Anders recognised him once more. He briefly looked up from Anders and his green eyes widened. 

“Hawke, no, wait-”

Then there was a second heavy blow against the back of his head and Anders knew no more.

 

***

“You are an idiot and a fool, Hawke, and you might have killed him!”

The elf was in a fury, his green eyes sparking with anger as he squared up to the rogue.

“Now, now, Broody, Hawke didn’t mean to-”

“Fenris, even you couldn’t restrain him - what was I supposed to do, stand back and watch him shred himself to pieces against that door?” retorted Hawke.

“If you’d given me a moment,” exclaimed Bethany in exasperation, glancing up from where she knelt next to the unconscious Anders. “I could have used this!” She held out a small magenta capsule.

“What’s that, Sunshine? One of Blondie’s little specials?” asked Varric, curious.

“It’s a stun capsule - he made them to mimic spirit blasts. He gave me a handful of them when we first set out, but I’d almost forgotten them.”

“I wish you’d remembered sooner,” grumbled Hawke.

“You didn’t give me a chance,” she retorted. “Just waded in swinging and doing your best to give Anders a concussion at the least. Don’t you think he’s had enough damage to the head? Honestly, Garrett, Fenris is right - you could have killed Anders. One blow was bad enough - what possessed you to take a second swing at him?”

“I wasn’t _thinking!_ ” cried Hawke.

“Evidently!” snarled Fenris. “That much is blindingly obvious to anyone with half a brain!”

“Alright, enough already folks,” interjected Varric, stepping between them with his hands upraised placatingly. “By some miracle, Hawke _didn’t_ kill Blondie - how, I have no idea. The Maker must have been looking out for our one-eyed apostate. Question is, what do we do now?”

Anders groaned faintly as he stirred, one hand slowly reaching up to clutch at his head. Fenris was at his side in an instant, dropping down to his knees next to the apostate as Anders blinked dazedly, his gaze unfocused. 

“Anders?” asked Fenris in a low, gentle voice; Anders seemed not to hear him as he slowly pushed himself up on one elbow, still clutching at his head, the gaze of his one good eye abstracted. Clumsily, he tried to sit upright; Bethany leaned against him to support his body with an arm around his shoulders; he turned his head a little towards her, not quite looking at her.

“Anders?” she asked quietly.

“Feel sick,” he mumbled.

“Anders? _Mi amatus?”_ murmured Fenris softly as he reached for Anders’ hand. The mage let him take it, turning his head slightly towards the elf though his gaze remained unfocused.

“Anders, I’m sorry, I-” began Hawke but broke off when Bethany glanced up at him and shook her head, her expression dark with worry.

“Can’t see properly. Head hurts. Think... going to be sick,” Anders managed slowly as he clutched tightly to Fenris’ hand. “Too dark in here. Need air.”

Bethany hastily called up a ball of magelight that lit up the area around them brighter; Fenris and Hawke squinted against the bright light as Varric lifted a gloved hand to shade his eyes, but Anders did not so much as blink.

Fenris stared at Anders as the blond apostate frowned and continued to stare at nothing. Glancing at Bethany, he hesitantly lifted his other hand and passed it slowly in front of Anders’ face. 

Anders did not even blink.

They all exchanged glances, and then Hawke turned away, his face ashen as he began to swear.

 

***

 

“So now I’m completely blind.” Anders’ voice was quiet, subdued, as he sat next to Fenris, his leg pressed against that of the elf, his hand resting lightly on the warrior’s arm. 

“Can you tell what the damage is?” asked Bethany, glancing at her brother. Hawke was hunched over, his eyes on the ground, unable to bring himself to even look at Anders.

“I’m... almost afraid to try,” confessed Anders, his voice shaking a little. “Silly, really. After all, I have my magic back; whatever it is, I should be able to fix it, right? It’s not like my eye is _gone_ \- it’s still there, I just had a bad knock to the head. I’ve fixed hundreds of head wounds; one more shouldn’t be a problem after all.” He was aware he was rambling a little; he lowered his head, letting the words die. 

Hawke said nothing, only hunched himself over further.

“You should try,” rumbled Fenris. “What is it you are afraid of?”

Anders shrugged. “That maybe... it’s permanent,” he admitted after a while. “That it’s something I _can’t_ fix. The brain - it’s not like other parts of the body. You can’t regenerate lost bits really. I mean, you can repair damage, but it’s never quite the way it was before, and you can never fully predict the outcome.”

“You’re afraid you’ll lose your magic again,” guessed Bethany. Anders’ answer was a wan smile.

“Do you need lyrium?” asked Bethany slowly.

Anders’ breath huffed out of him in something that was halfway between a hysterical scream and a gasp, and then he dropped his head to his hands with a low moan. How could he explain to her that he’d been needing lyrium from the moment he’d opened his eyes - that even now, he couldn’t get the memory of the feel of the red lyrium idol out of his head? His whole body _burned_ for it. He pressed his face into his hands as he doubled over and fought the urge to scream.

“Mage?” exclaimed Fenris, startled; of all the responses he might have anticipated, this wasn’t one of them - this sudden folding in upon himself as Anders bit his lip and whimpered faintly in the back of his throat. 

“He took it with him,” muttered Anders. “I can still feel it though. Still feel its touch.”

“The idol?” exclaimed Varric. “But what’s that got to do with - you know?” He gestured at Anders vaguely.

“Can’t explain,” said Anders; he was was aware of their eyes on him as he tried to pull himself back together as they watched. “But - no, I don’t want lyrium. Need -” He broke off and shook his head firmly then winced, the incautious movement causing a flare of pain in his head. He needed the red lyrium, but he could not have explained to them how or why he had been gripped with such a craving after touching the idol so briefly. He could not even explain it to himself. It was a physical urge, a terrible craving that ate at him inside, gnawing at his guts and burning inside his joints. Each movement was painful, but so was sitting still. His whole body ached.

“Easy, mage,” said Fenris. “Do you have the energy to try to heal yourself?”

Anders bit his lip and nodded slowly, cautiously. “Got to try, haven’t I?” he said as he straightened. He drew a deep breath, exhaling in a slow sigh as he stared blindly down at the upturned palms of his hands; then he reached for his belt pouch and pulled out a vial of lyrium. He stared blankly into space for a moment, feeling the smooth glass of the vial between his fingers, imagining in his mind the soft blue glow of the liquid he could not see; then shrugged in resignation. He didn't want to take it, but what choice did he have? He needed the mana, and the clarity of thought. His hands trembled only a little as he prised out the cork with his thumb nail, then he downed it in one with a faint grimace. He lowered his head to his hands and sighed softly as the nagging pain that throbbed through his whole body receded a little, making it a little easier to think even as the whisper of mana flowed through his veins once more; and then the soft blue glow of healing magic gleamed softly between his fingers. It was cool and soothing as he let it sink into his head; and with it, his consciousness.

It was hard to concentrate; though he’d done this on patients before, still there was always something rather unnerving about looking inside one’s own head. _There_ , the original head wound from so long ago, where the steel crossbow bolt had ripped through his head, shredding his eye and severing for a time his connection to the Fade. Though he felt himself instinctively shying away, he forced himself to look closer; to see the new flesh but recently grown across old scar tissue, sense the new neural connections forming and growing - tentatively yet, it was true, but there nonetheless, weaving anew the bridge between his consciousness and that part of his subconscious that formed the link to the Fade deep within. The tendrils were weak and fragile; either blow to his head could easily have severed them, and he exclaimed aloud in shock; he had come so close to losing what little glimmerings of magic he had so recently regained. Hawke could so easily have rendered him Tranquil. 

He was distantly aware of Fenris’ arms about him, raised voices. He ignored them, and went deeper.

There was bruising and contusions; Hawke’s blows had caused a bad concussion. He reached out with the magic to harmlessly breakdown and shunt away blood that had pooled and threatened to clot, inwardly shuddering as he realised the extent of the damage within his brain - both the old residual damage, and that inflicted by Hawke. Really, it was a wonder he were alive at all!

Ah, there it was; the swelling and inflammation were pressing upon the optic nerve of his one remaining good eye. He shunted fluids, eased pressure, gently lifted inflammation to try and restore function. With time and rest, he should regain his sight; he would not be blind for much longer - just perhaps a few hours, which he should spend in sleeping once he was done fixing what Hawke had done to him. With luck the impairment would not prove permanent.

He instinctively wanted to shy away from examining the mess that remained of his other eye and the scarred ruin that marked the path of the slaver’s bolt, but he forced himself to look closer once more. Silently he guided the healing energies inwards to where those delicate tendrils of nerves and synapses were slowly rebuilding themselves, weaving them a little stronger. They were yet raw and new, the very act of healing painful.

A strange feeling rippled through him; he felt for a moment as though he were floating just outside his own body, looking on; almost as though he were looking through the eyes of someone - or some _thing_ \- else; and then a moment later the disquieting feeling was gone.

He “reached” with what reserves of swiftly-dwindling mana he yet possessed for the ruined eye. There was little left of it, as Bethany had told him; there were tiny scraps; little more than fragments really, not enough to work with even if he were at his full strength. The optic nerve was gone completely; he would never see with that eye again. But he could ease the rawness of the nerves around that scarred ruin.

But what power the lyrium had given him was gone already, though he could feel his link to his mana was stronger now. Sleep would likely restore more of his power.

He was aware of Fenris holding him close, the elf’s arms comforting as they held him. His body felt heavy with exhaustion, and he ached, every joint in his body throbbing painfully. Why was he so tired? Once, he would have eased concussion with barely a thought but now the slightest healing left him drained and ennervated. Each vial of lyrium seemed to give him less and less, leaving him empty and cold all too soon. He could feel Fenris’ chest vibrate beneath him as the elf spoke, but he was too exhausted to follow the conversation, too preoccupied with the dull ache in every limb. He was almost limp in Fenris’ arms as the elven warrior gently stroked sweat-dampened hair away from his closed eyes; he was vaguely aware of the others speaking, only paying attention with an inner wrench of effort when Fenris replied. “No, I think he is merely sleeping.” 

“I never meant to hurt him like that.” Hawke’s voice, strangely subdued and quiet. “After what he’s been through - I’d never forgive myself if it was my clumsiness that made him Tranquil. I’d seen what losing his magic did to him. The thought I might even have killed him -”

Anders could tell from the rustle of cloth and leather that the rogue had shuddered.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke went on after a moment. “I’ve been letting my anger get the better of me.”

“The Deep Roads don’t exactly bring the best out in people,” remarked Varric. The dwarf sighed. “Though Maker’s balls, I know Bartrand and I haven’t always seen eye to eye - but I never would have dreamed he’d abandon his own brother down here.” There was a rustle of cloth; Anders could picture the dwarf shaking his head slowly in disbelief. “All over a lousy idol and a pile of treasure he was too much of a backstabbing nug-humper to split three ways.”

“Believe me, I’d willingly give my share up for a chance to have Anders up on the surface whole and well again,” sighed Hawke. “To the Void with the forty sovereigns; Bartrand can keep them. I should never have brought him down here.”

“It was his choice to come, Garrett,” said Bethany gently.

“I swear, when we get back to the surface I’m going to track that son of a bitch - sorry, Mother - that bastard down and kill him,” growled Varric angrily. “There’s got to be another way back to the surface.”

“And I will finish whatever is left of him after you have done with him; this, _I_ swear,” rumbled Fenris. 

“Come on, sitting here in front of a locked door isn’t going to achieve anything,” sighed Hawke as he got to his feet. “Come on, let’s make camp for the night. We’ll start looking for a way out in the morning once Anders has had a chance to sleep off his exhaustion and recover. No, you stay there with Anders, Fenris - Beth and I have got this. Varric, stew?”

“Good idea,” agreed Varric as he got to his feet. “No telling how long we’re going to need to make our supplies last.”

Anders finally drifted into sleep to the sounds of camp being struck, his body still aching and painful but exhaustion taking a greater toll.


	27. Chapter 27

He slowly drifted back to wakefulness. It was dark when he opened his eyes; pitch black, so that he couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face. He panicked for a moment, reaching out and flailing wildly until his hand touched warm skin and he felt breath on his face, soft hair brushing his cheek.

“Calm yourself, Anders, I am here,” rumbled a low voice, and Anders sighed with relief; he wasn’t alone in the dark. Fenris was there.

“It’s dark,” he managed to gulp, his panic slowly receding.

“Ah. Your vision has not yet returned then?” pondered Fenris quietly. Anders groaned and rolled over onto his back, rubbing his face tiredly with one hand.

“It seems not,” he sighed. He lay still for a moment, staring sightlessly into the darkness before he slowly sat up and patted around for his staff. There was the soft scrape of metal and wood on stone, and then the haft of his staff was pressed into his hand. “Thank you,” he whispered, clutching it firmly.

“Wait here, I shall bring you something hot to drink and something to eat,” Fenris told him. Anders snorted.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he shrugged, a faintly bitter note creeping into his voice.

“Anders.” Fenris had paused; Anders had the feeling he was staring at him. “Your sight will return; you said yourself it might take a little time.”

Anders nodded. “I know. It’s just so frustrating.” He sighed.

A scrape of a foot against stone, and then Anders felt the elf moving away from him as a slight draft of colder air eddying in the warrior’s wake and a sense of emptiness. Around him, he could feel the others stirring; the crackling of the fire as someone coaxed the embers back into life and added more wood; the splash of water and the dull clunk of an iron pot being set over the fire.

Anders folded up his blanket by touch then felt around for his pack. He managed to pack it away by feel, tucking his mother’s pillow safely in on top. His movements were slow, his joints stiff and aching, though only a dull echo of the agonising pain he’d experienced yesterday evening. He felt the tell-tale trembling in his hands beginning once more, his head aching. He felt for his belt pouch and brushed his fingers over the small vials of lyrium, then blinked. There were only two left.

He’d best start rationing it; take only barely enough to take the edge off the worst of the cravings. He pulled out one, uncorking it before taking a small sip - barely enough to wet his lips, really - before recorking it and tucking the precious vial away again. He would need to be careful. He had no idea how much lyrium Bethany had left but he doubted she could have much more than he did. She’d been too free with it, giving it to him.

He felt in his other pouches; he still had a good number of his little modified blast capsules. He could tell the difference between them by which pouch each type was stored in, counting along from the large brass ring that held his belt closed. Not that they’d necessarily do him a lot of good until the sight in his good eye returned - though at least he could reasonably accurately pinpoint any darkspawn he might encounter.

He tapped his chin thoughtfully with one finger. He was used to casting shields on the others and keeping a light touch on each of them during fights with his healer’s senses; maybe he could use that to at least tell where they were? He frowned, “reaching” out.

Ah, that was Fenris; he could tell by the touch of the lyrium in the elf’s skin, like a silvery thread running through what he identified as “elf”. Stretching further he touched the earthy presence that was Varric.

Turning his head blindly, he felt carefully then smiled as he recognised the feel of Bethany; she felt like sunlight and cooling spring rain.

Hawke, he would have known anywhere; he had healed him so often that the sense of his presence was familiar and warm.

Fenris muttered an oath. “Mage, what are you doing?” he exclaimed irritably.

“Trying to tell where you all are,” Anders replied. He pointed in the direction of where he’d sensed Fenris. “You, Varric, Bethany, Hawke.” He pointed to the presence of each in turn, and by the exclamations of the others he knew he’d gotten it right.

“How on earth did you do that?” asked Hawke.

“Same way I keep tabs on you all and heal you at a distance when we’re in a fight,” shrugged Anders. “It’s just a variation of that. And I already know I can feel where darkspawn are.”

“Useful,” remarked Varric in an approving and thoughtful tone. “I wonder if any mage could do that, or just a healer?”

“I certainly couldn’t,” replied Bethany. “I’m useless at healing magic.”

“Well, at least we know you’re not quite as helpless as we thought,” said Hawke in a relieved tone. I don’t suppose you can feel where the cavern walls are too?”

Anders snorted. “Rock isn’t alive,” he pointed out. “And moss isn’t exactly what I’m attuned to feeling in terms of living creatures. I can sense the lyrium in the walls....” His voice tailed off.

“Right, well, we’ll keep you clear of the cave walls then,” said Hawke briskly, clapping his hands together. “Breakfast I think, and then we should break camp and start looking for a way out of here. Beth, I think you should stick with Anders, make sure he doesn’t trip over any potholes he might miss with his staff whilst Fenris scouts on ahead with Varric. Anders, do you still have your maps?”

“Right here,” answered Anders as he reached into his pack, locating the old worn parchment by touch then pulling them out and holding them up so Hawke could take them from his hand. Whilst he was aware of where Hawke was standing, he had no clear idea of where Hawke’s hand was. He felt the other man pluck the maps from his hand. “You’d better hang onto them; they’re no good to me now,” he added.

He felt Hawke’s hand close over his own fingers as the rogue crouched down in front of him, his breath warm on Anders’ face. “Listen, Anders... about what happened yesterday. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight. But it’s going to be OK. Your sight will come back, and we’re going to find a way out of this pit and get back to the surface, alright? And then you’ll never have to set foot in the Deep Roads ever again.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” answered Anders. He tried to smile, but suspected he’d failed from the way Hawke’s fingers tightened briefly on his before he let go, straightening up as he turned away. A moment later Fenris was at his side, pressing a cup of something hot and steaming into his hand. 

“There’s a plate to your left with bread and cheese on it,” said the elf quietly. “There’s a little elfroot and willowbark in the tea.”

“How did you know I had a headache?” asked Anders. He blew on the surface of the hot liquid before taking a cautious sip.

“Because I saw you taking lyrium. And I saw how little you took. How much do you have left?”

“Not enough,” said Anders, deliberately keeping his tone light. “A little under two vials left. But it’s OK, because we’ll find a way to the surface and get out of here and I’ll be fine. Really.”

“Anders....” He felt Fenris’ hand upon his shoulder.

“Don’t,” said Anders in a fierce whisper, feeling the sting of threatening tears in his good eye. “Please. Just... don’t. Don’t make this harder than it already is. I don’t want anyone’s pity or condescension; I just want to get out of this fucking pit and away from here to somewhere where I can breathe without the Maker knows how many tons of rock over my head and darkspawn around every corner. Just... just leave me be. I’ll be fine.”

Fenris’ hand fell away. “As you wish,” he acceded quietly. Anders felt him move away, and he sighed silently.

They packed up after they’d eaten and taken care of bodily needs, Anders shrugging off Fenris’ solicitous hand and stumbling away, feeling his way with his staff and one hand outstretched to find an out of the way spot. Finding his way back was easier; he just had to focus on where he could sense the others and then home in on their presence, feeling his way with his staff for any obstructions in his way. Even so, he was thankful to reach them, and he managed to accept Bethany’s arm linking through his with grace. As they headed off through the tunnels, he grew grateful for her presence; between her deft yet silent guidance and his staff, he managed to keep up without stumbling too much.

After a while he realised the blackness was not quite so complete and dark; it seemed more of a very dark red, and when he turned his head he thought he could see slightly lighter patches. Not enough to really see, but it seemed something of his vision was slowly returning.

“Bethany,” he said quietly. “Can you call up a little light?”

He felt the pull of magic in the air, and then he grew aware of a faint bloom of red against the darker shadowy void.

“Can you see that?” exclaimed Bethany. He reached out and passed his hand before the light and back again; he could dimly make out the faint shadow of his hand against the dull dark red light.

“Kind of. I can sort of make out where the light is,” he replied.

“Then your eyesight _is_ recovering!” she said, delightedly.

“A little,” he nodded. “It’s not great, but it is at least something.”

She squeezed his arm comfortingly. “It’s going to be alright, Anders,” she said reassuringly. “We’re going to get out, and you’ll get your sight back, and everything will be OK.”

“Funnily enough your brother said the same thing,” he said with a lop-sided grin. He was aware of her turning slightly towards him, and wished he could see her face.


	28. Chapter 28

He felt them. Darkspawn, just up ahead.

“Stop,” he said, pulling Bethany to a halt with him.

“Anders?” Hawke, just ahead of him; a scrape of metal armour to his left told him Fenris had stepped back to his side.

“What’s up, Blondie?” asked Varric, his voice echoing a little from farther up the passage.

“Darkspawn. Four of them,” he said tersely. “Genlocks from the feel of it. There must be others nearby as well.”

“How are we going to handle this?” asked Bethany; he could feel her eyes upon him.

“Same way we always do,” replied Anders. There was silence for a moment. “What, you think just because I’m blind now, I can’t fight? I’m still a mage. I still have my staff. I may not be able to _see_ the darkspawn but I can still feel them! And I can still feel where all of you are. I can still heal, shield you - I’m not a helpless cripple, damn it!” he snapped.

“Peace,” said Fenris; Anders felt a gauntleted hand come to rest upon his arm. He drew breath slowly.

“I can still fight,” he said, quieter. “Just let me get my back to a wall or something so I have less chance of blundering into it or falling over.”

“Alright,” said Hawke. “Fenris, with me - we’ll go through first. Beth, get Anders to the wall then back me up. Varric, stick with Anders and pick ‘em off at a distance. Everyone keep sharp.”

Anders took Bethany’s arm again as he heard Fenris move forward with Hawke to take up position. Varric patted him on the back as he took up the rear position. “I got your back, Blondie,” he said encouragingly.

The moment they were through the door, Anders felt Bethany’s hand slip out from his grasp and then she was tugging him sideways. His back hit rock and he grunted.

“Sorry!” she exclaimed; he shook his head with a small frown, senses already extending out. 

“Genlock behind you!” he warned her. “Get down!” He levelled his staff in the direction of the unclean feeling and unleashed a blast of ice in that direction, trusting she’d ducked.

“Thanks!” she exclaimed breathlessly, and he grinned.

“Nice one, Blondie,” grunted Varric as he took up position to Anders’ left; Bianca sang out.

“You too,” replied Anders absently as he felt one of the genlocks “fade” from his perception. He felt a flare of pain emanating from Fenris and without thinking, reached out with healing, following it up with a shield spell before turning blindly to seek for the presence of Hawke and doing the same.

Then Fenris lit up his brands. Anders knew he had, because suddenly there was a bloom of lighter red against the darkness, and he could feel his magic sing in answer.

The fight was over very quickly; Anders heard the others exclaiming around him in excitement, and someone clapped him on the shoulder. “We did it!” said Hawke.

“Told you,” said Anders, unable to repress a smirk.

“That you did, Blondie,” agreed Varric. “That you did.”

 

***

 

Anders had no idea how far they travelled that day. They encountered five more groups of darkspawn; he found it frustrating having to stand still wherever Bethany or Varric put him, and pinpointing where everyone was and where the darkspawn were was exhausting. It took a lot of concentration, on top of healing and shielding the others. He suspected they had not gotten as far as they would have if he had still had his sight.

At least the effort of concentrating kept his mind off the nagging headache that had gradually worsened through the day, and the dull ache in his joints. By the time Hawke called a halt however, it was hard to think of anything else. His body was one mass of pain, and the little trickle of healing magic he tried to relieve the pain frustratingly did nothing. The smell of food cooking had his stomach lurching treacherously.

Fenris guided him to a rock and he sat down, his staff laid across his knees as he bowed his head slightly and listened to the sounds of camp being struck around him. He fumbled clumsily with a shaking hand for a vial of lyrium that seemed far too light. When he set it to his lips, there was barely half a mouthful there. He swallowed it down, and felt the ache in his joints recede a little. Then he dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

“Anders?” 

He knew even before she spoke that it was Bethany; her aura was gentle and soothing. He frowned a little. Something about it seemed.... odd.

“Beth,” he said quietly.

“Your eyesight still hasn’t come back then?” she said gently as she sat down next to him. He huffed a sigh of frustration.

“It should have, but it hasn’t,” he replied. “And no, I don’t know why,” he added tersely.

“Anders.” She laid a hand on his arm. There was no note of reproach in her voice, but he felt guilty nonetheless for snapping.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I’m tired and aching. I shouldn’t be taking it out on you though.”

There was a soft clink of glass, and then she pressed something into his hand; he felt the distinct shapes of four vials. “What -”

“You need these more than I do,” she said gently.

“Beth, no, I _can’t_ \- you’ll need this!” he protested as he tried to hand them back. She closed his hand firmly over them.

“Not as much as you do,” she said gently.

He bit his lip, feeling tears sting his one remaining eye. He drew a deep breath, not trusting himself to speak. After a moment she leaned in and gently kissed his cheek; he turned blindly towards her. “Beth....”

She patted his arm then rose to her feet and moved away.

He sat silently, the lyrium held in his hand; he finally remembered to tuck them away in his pouch next to his last remaining vial when he heard Fenris approaching. Though the elf was quiet, Anders could feel him - feel his life essence and the lyrium in his skin as he approached.

“The meal is ready,” Fenris said gruffly. “Do you feel up to eating?”

Anders pressed a hand against his stomach. It still churned a little uneasily, but not as bad as it had before. He nodded, and held out a hand for Fenris to help him up and lead him to the others.

 

***

He opened his eyes and saw nothing. 

He panicked. He’d done nothing wrong; why was he back in solitary again? This wasn’t fair! He reached out wildly, trying to find the walls of his cell, and then his hands brushed warm skin.

“Please, don’t leave me in the dark - I’ll be good!” he whimpered. The templar shifted, and Anders felt warm breath huff upon his face in the dark. “Please Ser!” he whispered.

“Mage.” 

He recognised the voice even as he felt the pull of lyrium and a soft dark red bloomed against the impenetrable blackness all around him; and he remembered then where he was. He reached out clumsily, and Fenris took his hand.

“Anders, you are safe. There are no templars here.”

He nodded his head, ashamed. He could feel a wetness on his cheek and he scrubbed the tears away with the heel of his palm, ashamed. He felt self-conscious and embarrassed.

“Why am I still blind?” he exclaimed, frustrated.

He felt Fenris shifting next to him, and then a warm hand gently brushed the hair away from his eyes. 

“Your eye still does not react to the light,” the elf said quietly. “Do you still only see vague patches where there is light?”

Anders nodded slowly. “I don’t understand. My sight should have come back by now.”

“How much lyrium have you been taking?” asked Fenris.

“Not as much as you think,” said Anders sullenly.

“Anders....”

He sighed. “Less than I should,” he admitted. “I only took one vial yesterday. At least, I assume it was yesterday. Impossible to tell down here even if I could still see.”

“Could it be that... withdrawal... is impeding your body’s ability to heal itself?” suggested Fenris softly.

Anders swallowed hard. “It’s... possible,” he nodded.

Fenris took both his hands in his own warm, sure grip, the lyrium lines upon his palms tingling against Anders’ skin. “Anders. The truth now. How much do you have left?”

Anders was silent for a while before he murmured, “Five vials. Bethany gave me the last of hers.”

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” muttered Fenris. “One vial a day and you are barely functional. Five days....”

“You think I don’t know that?” said Anders. “Even if Bartrand hadn’t shut us in, we’d still be two weeks away from the surface!”

He felt Fenris’ arms enfold him in a comforting, warm hug. “We will find a way, Anders,” the elf rumbled quietly.

He allowed Fenris to draw him back down onto their shared bedroll. The elf spooned against him, their hands still laced together. He felt the elf’s breathing smooth out and grow slower as he relaxed back into sleep.

Anders stared blankly out into the darkness and wondered about that strange odd feeling he’d picked up from Bethany. It was almost... familiar.

He was still pondering it when he fell asleep.


	29. Chapter 29

It was somewhere around the third cave the next day that he began to hear things.

It wasn’t much; just a strange, high-pitched twittering - like the calls of bats, but almost he thought there were words to it; not quite intelligible, but close enough that he found himself straining to try and make them out. 

“D’you hear that?” he’d asked Bethany quietly. “Aren’t we rather far underground for bats?”

“I don’t hear anything,” she said, her voice sounding confused. “What can you hear?”

“It’s probably nothing,” he shrugged. “Maybe just my ears making something up to make up for the loss of my sight.” He swung his staff carefully before him in a small arc; it tapped a rock, and he carefully sidestepped around it. He was getting better at finding his way around now; he was learning to hear for the slight echoing of their voices that told him how wide the cavern must be, and with his staff he was getting the hang of walking without knocking into things. He could feel where the others were around him with just a little push of magic, which made it easier keeping up. They were making better time as a result.

He was still pretty much reliant on Bethany or Varric in a fight to guide him somewhere safe, and most of his concentration was taken up with healing and invigorate spells, cantrips to increase their speed, and shields to protect them - counting on the others in turn to protect him, though he got off plenty of offensive spells too, when he had a clear line of fire. Occasionally one of the others would call out a direction and how far away a target was, and he would trust to their shouted guides and lob a fireball in that direction; or Bethany would target something with a lightning bolt that he could sense with his own magic and see as a lighter patch of red against the perpetual darkness around him to home in his own spells; but it all demanded a lot of concentration, and as each day passed increasingly he would fall back into the role of healer as the constant concentration and the growing, racking pains in his body took a toll on his meagre energy.

And the pains were growing worse. One vial of lyrium a day wasn’t enough; and by the fourth day he was trying to eke it out a little further; that day he took only half a vial in the morning, and that evening he spent huddled beneath his blanket, alternately shivering and sweating, every joint in his body stabbing with pain when he tried to move. Fenris had tried to coax a little food into him; he had refused, certain it would come back up. Eventually he fell into an exhausted sleep, only to awaken the next morning feeling as though he had barely slept at all.

He lay there, his head pounding and his guts churning, listening dully as Hawke and the others discussed him. Their voices boomed through his skull, too loud for thought.

“He can’t go on, Hawke.” The low rumble like falling rocks; he knew that was Fenris. “He is in withdrawal.”

“We can’t stay here, Fenris.” Hawke, that one; a voice like the crack of thunder overhead, bright and loud and ringing painfully in Anders’ disoriented ears. “We’re running low on food. We _have_ to press on. Beth - I hate to ask, but -”

“I gave him the last of my lyrium, Garrett.” Sweet Beth. Her voice was soft, but still it cascaded through his head like a raging torrent, sweeping away concentration until he thought he would drown in her voice. Blind though he was, her voice called up images in his mind of a swirling river, and he thought he might surrender to it. He couldn’t hear the bats when she spoke.

“How much has Blondie got left, Broody?” Varric, a voice like honey or treacle; Anders was caught in it, cloying yet soothing, weighing him down.

“Not enough. He took only half a vial yesterday, and you have seen the result. He had one and a half vials left. I do not know whether making him eke them out like this is not more cruel than letting him ride out withdrawal now.” Lost in the swirl of sound, the meaning of Fenris’ words was lost on the delirious mage; he was too transfixed by the swirling green patterns his mind made of the voice that followed him back down into sleep, distracting him from the burning pain in his guts.

He had no idea how long he slept, but the pain through his body and the churning nausea was so much worse when he woke again. Someone was calling his name.

He opened his eyes and Karl was smiling down at him, the red flaming sun brand upon his forehead still ugly and fresh and new, and he cried out. “I’m sorry, Maker, I’m so sorry!” he told him as he reached for Karl; but the Tranquil mage only shook his head then pulled open the front of his robes to reveal Anders’ dagger still embedded in his heart and the blood, still pumping out fresh and hot.

It was on his hands, in his hair; everywhere he looked he could see blood, smell it, taste it in his mouth. The taste of flesh, the stench of burning corpses, and they were all around him - Wardens, Templars, but Roland was still laughing at him, laughing and laughing as the blood ran from his mouth; and Anders screamed and vomited, his stomach twisting painfully, uselessly.

There were hands holding him and he could feel cold, sharp armour; he shrank away from the templar. “No, no please, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me again, I didn’t do anything!” he wept.

A lance of pain stabbed through his head and he screamed again. He was vaguely aware of voices, but he couldn’t make sense of them. The bats were back, jabbering and chittering away in voices that should have been too high for human speech but there were words in there, he _knew_ ; and he could smell them now - smell the corruption, the taint; rank, vile and rotten, the stench clinging to the inside of his throat and choking him as his stomach twisted again. He’d felt the taint earlier but now it was all around him; it was upon him, inside him, in his very blood.

His skin burned and itched; he clawed at it desperately, feeling it grow slick under his hands until someone was restraining his wrists and all he could do was writhe helplessly and beg for mercy between screams until his throat was raw and he couldn’t scream any more. The pain was like knives jabbing into his stomach, pulsing with his heartbeat, with the blood he could feel rolling across his skin as it burned.

Dear Maker it _hurt_ , it _hurt_ and it wouldn’t stop and Maker please someone make it _stop_....

“Anders. Anders!” Slowly the voice penetrated the haze of pain.

“Fenris, it hurts, it hurts so much - sweet Andraste let me die,” he sobbed. He could feel Fenris’ arms around him; he opened his one remaining eye but could see nothing.

“Easy, _mi amatus,_ ” rumbled Fenris softly; gentle hands were brushing the wet hair away from his eyes before bathing his face with a soft cloth. He could feel the taint worse than ever and he weakly tried to pull away. The cool water was soothing but it reeked of corruption, of the bats that wheeled and chittered overhead with those foul voices that set his teeth on edge and made the pain in his head nigh unbearable.

“Make them stop - make it all stop!” he begged. 

The buzz of voices; he couldn’t follow the conversation. Karl was whispering to him again, and he could feel the blood dripping on his skin from the wound in Karl’s chest. He tried to scrub it away frantically; he burned everywhere it touched. Karl’s face was melting, the flesh running off like hot wax - just like the faces of the dead templars who were taking him back to the tower only they never saw the darkspawn, and though he hated the templars he hated the darkspawn more and they were burning, everything was burning, Maker _he_ was burning - a fire in his veins, his guts, his skin.

He couldn’t move his arms. Something was holding him down. He glanced down and out of the darkness he could see glistening wet coils, black and sinuous, winding around his body and pinning his arms to his sides. His eyes widened in terror and he began to scream. He tried to call upon his magic, lightning dancing from his fingers, but suddenly he felt it arc, out of control, and he jerked as it raced through his body. His spine snapped backwards and he tried to scream as the shock raced through him, his body twitching and jerking spasmodically. He couldn’t breathe.

He thought he would die, but suddenly the pain stopped.

He blinked, looking around slowly. The cavern was lit by a dim green light; as he got to his feet and stared around himself, he suddenly realised he _could_ see. His eyes widened and he stared down at himself, then around again wildly.

The cavern was empty. The lyrium veins in the walls glowed softly, their silvery blue light radiant and lovely yet cold and chilling. He felt drawn towards it, but stayed where he was.

“ _What are you doing here?_ ”

He whirled round, alarmed. A pale golden figure was regarding him curiously. It seemed vaguely female - or at least, it seemed to have long hair that drifted slowly in a breeze he could not feel, it seemed to be wearing some form of floating gown, and what he could see of its figure seemed to have shapely curves approximating those of a woman. He couldn’t make out the facial features, if indeed there were any.

“I... I don’t know,” he answered.

“ _Hmm... a mortal. And **aware**. We don’t get many like you here. Usually your kind are dreamers_.” It drifted closer, tilting its head on one side.

“You’re a spirit,” Anders said. “But... what are you a spirit of?”

A second spirit appeared next to the first and peered at him curiously.

“ _We know you_ ,” the newcomer said softly.

“Y-you _do_?” asked Anders, stumbling backwards.

“ _Oh yes. We have seen you before_ ,” chimed a third voice; pale golden hands came to gently rest upon his shoulders and he cried out in alarm.

“ _Don’t be afraid_ ,” said a fourth, drifting close to him.

“ _We only want to help_ ,” said a fifth.

“ _We always come to help_ ,” agreed a sixth.

“Who are you?” he breathed.

“ _Don’t you recognise us, Spirit Healer?_ ” asked the first spirit, drifting towards him. It smiled gently, then lifted impossibly slender arms as it drifted closer still. He stared into the glowing light where he still could not make out eyes, or any other features. Soft, warm fingers cradled his face and he felt a gentle breeze upon his skin. 

“ _You are the one who calls us_ ,” said the spirit; and though it had no mouth, Anders knew it was smiling. “ _You are the Healer_.”


	30. Chapter 30

Fenris was on watch when Anders suddenly curled upon his side and let out a piteous groan, clutching his stomach as his eyelids fluttered. The elf leapt to his feet as Anders rolled onto his back and began to babble. 

Hawke and Varric were on their feet, Bethany sitting up and looking round in alarm as the blond apostate rolled onto his side with a hoarse scream and vomited a thin stream of bile. In an instant, Fenris was at his side, gently lifting him into his arms. Anders began to struggle to get away from him.

“No, no please, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me again, I didn’t do anything!” he wept.

“Anders, _mi amatus_ \- it’s alright, you are safe, no-one will hurt you!” exclaimed Fenris as the others clustered around him.

“Doesn’t look good, Broody,” remarked Varric as Bethany reached out a hand to touch Anders’ forehead.

“Maker, he’s burning up!” she exclaimed. She recoiled as Anders suddenly threw his head back and screamed, one hand clutching at his head. He twisted onto his side in Fenris’ arms, retching again as he drew his knees up to his stomach; abruptly he began to claw at his skin.

“Anders, stop! You’re hurting yourself!” exclaimed Hawke as he caught hold of the mage’s slender wrists and held his hands down and away from his face as Anders writhed, in obvious agony. He was babbling, pleading for someone to make the pain stop as tears rolled down his face, already streaked with sweat and vomit.

“Anders. Anders!” said Fenris, urgently.

“Fenris, it hurts, it hurts so much - sweet Andraste let me die,” sobbed Anders as his one good eye opened, seeking him out blindly.

“Easy, _mi amatus_ ,” rumbled Fenris softly. Beside him, Bethany poured water from her canteen onto a cloth then tried to clean Anders’ face as best she could - no easy task, as the delirious mage recoiled from her, trying to turn his face away. He gritted his teeth against the pain and shook his head.

“Make them stop - make it all stop!” he begged. 

“Maker, this is bad,” said Hawke as Anders continued to writhe in pain, sweat beading his brow as he twisted in Fenris’ arms with a low moan that tailed off into a whimper. “What in blazes are we going to do? He needs help - but we’re still a long way from the surface!”

“He needs lyrium, Hawke,” said Fenris quietly. “I fear that giving him what little remains would only prolong his torment.”

“But we can’t just do _nothing_!” argued Bethany. “Look at him, he’s suffering!”

“Not to mention his screams will attract attention from darkspawn and worse,” said Hawke darkly.

“Then what do you suggest?” hissed Fenris, his anger flaring. He was distracted as Anders suddenly began frantically clawing at his skin again until Fenris wrapped both arms firmly around his chest, pinning his hands to his sides.

Anders seemed to panic worse than ever at this; he threw his head back and began to scream, over and over, his cries high-pitched and hysterical; Fenris thought he heard the word “broodmother” indistinctly between the screams. Anders appeared to be hallucinating every traumatic thing that had ever happened to him. 

His fingers twitched, and then suddenly he went stiff in Fenris’ arms before abruptly he went into convulsions, his one good eye rolled back until all they could see was the white. He was frothing at the mouth as a strange, pained gurgling came from his mouth with was transfixed wide open in a desperate attempt to scream.

After long moments that felt like a lifetime but in truth could only have been a couple of minutes, the blond apostate went limp in the elven warrior’s arms. They stared at him, shocked into silence. After a few minutes, Hawke leaned forward and pressed two fingers to the side of Anders’ neck just under the line of his jaw.

“Is he....” began Bethany in a horrified whisper. Hawke shook his head.

“Just unconscious,” he said quietly. Fenris cradled the unconscious man in his arms and looked down at the still, pale face, still damp with sweat. After a moment he looked up at the others helplessly.

“I do not know what to do for him,” he whispered. “How do we help him?”

“We can’t,” said Varric gravely. “He’s just got to get it out of his system. All we can do is just try to make him as comfortable as possible as he rides it out.”

“He could die!” said Fenris, glancing to Varric. “I have seen it happen - it is a slow, agonising death, the body shutting down under the strain until finally the heart stops. I cannot - I _will_ not tamely sit by to merely watch the man I love die by degrees before my very eyes!”

“And what do you propose to do about it then, Fenris?” asked Hawke in a reasonable tone of voice. “We’re none of us healers. Healing magic isn’t one of Beth’s areas of skill; she could maybe just about heal a cut or ease a headache, but there’s little she could do about lyrium withdrawal. You say he had one and a half vials of lyrium left - what would that do? Ease his discomfort for maybe a day? What then?”

Fenris stared aghast at Hawke, then dropped his gaze to the lyrium brands that swirled through his flesh. With an effort of will, they blazed into life with the old, familiar burn of pain. He laid a glowing hand gently upon Anders’ cheek; after a moment, the unconscious mage seemed to breathe easier.

“How long can you keep that up, Broody?” asked Varric quietly.

“As long as it takes,” answered the elf grimly.

“You have to sleep sometime, Fenris,” said Hawke slowly as he shook his head; Fenris’ only answer was a glare. After a moment he lowered his eyes to Anders’ pale face. 

Hawke sighed. “Well, no point in trying to sleep now,” he said. “I’m going to make up the fire and brew tea.”

“I’ll give you a hand, Hawke - and check our food supplies.”

They moved away together towards the embers of the fire. Firewood was something else growing scarce; there was none to be had down here, and the glowing moss on the walls gave off thick smoke when burned. Eventually their dwindling supply would run out, and then it would be cold rations until they, too ran out.

Bethany remained sitting with Fenris and the unconscious apostate. After a while, Fenris frowned and looked up. “Do you feel that?” he asked softly.

Bethany frowned in answer. She closed her eyes and concentrated, cautiously feeling with her magic. Her eyes flew open. “Spirits! They’re all around us! Are they being drawn by your lyrium?”

“Perhaps,” said the elf. “Or perhaps they are drawn to Anders. He is, after all, a spirit healer. He has told me before that he is sometimes assisted by a spirit of healing. It is why he was Harrowed so young, he told me; all mages are irresistible to spirits and demons, none more so than a spirit healer. Something about them calls to such beings,” he added dourly.

“Anders has always resisted though. He’s the strongest mage I know.”

Fenris snorted. “Not enough; he took a demon into himself, did he not?”

“I wonder what happened to Justice,” said Bethany thoughtfully. “There’s been no sign of him since Anders lost his eye.”

“He told me he could no longer feel it,” replied Fenris. “Perhaps it was driven out when he lost his magic? No matter. He is free of it, however it happened; for which I can only be glad.”

Anders murmured something in his sleep, then grew still as they watched, holding their breath. But he said nothing further, remaining still and silent despite the touch of Fenris’ softly-glowing lyrium.

“How long do you think he’ll sleep?” Bethany asked quietly. Fenris shrugged.

“There is no way of telling. Perhaps a few hours; perhaps days. Perhaps he may never wake up; it is possible.” He lowered his head, falling silent.

“I’m sure your lyrium must be helping,” she said softly. She reached out a hand as if to touch his arm, then drew it back again, thinking better of it. After a while, she quietly got to her feet.

“Bethany,” said Fenris as he glanced up at her. “I... Thank you. For sitting with me.”

She smiled sadly at him. She cast a last glance down at Anders, then made her way back towards the camp fire.

Fenris continued his silent vigil over the unconscious mage alone, ignoring the discomfort as he let the lyrium glow. It was a small price to pay if it meant Anders would live.

***

Fenris kept up the power of his brands through the rest of the day until exhaustion and the burning pain made him seek the surcease of a few hours’ rest. He had been asleep barely an hour when the hurlocks attacked.

A pack of perhaps fifteen, they were silent as they surrounded the camp. Hawke had barely time to yell a warning before they were upon the small group.

They fought them off, Fenris standing over his comatose mage to drive them away. There were several minutes of hard fighting and it was a close-run thing; but in the end they stood inside a ring of dead darkspawn, breathing hard but alive. Fenris had a nasty gash down one arm and Hawke was limping, but healing potions took care of the worst of their wounds. They decided to move camp after that, for fear of further packs of darkspawn being drawn to them. They cleaned off the dark blood as best they could then struck camp, moving on through the dark which was lit dimly by the light of Fenris’ brands as he carried Anders carefully, Bethany a step behind as she bore Anders’ staff as well as her own.

They travelled as far as they could before they had to call a halt. Though scrawny and far too light, Anders was still a dead weight in the elf’s arms; and he was still exhausted thanks to not enough rest and the exertion of fighting. They found a small side cave with, strangely, a couple of near-empty crates. Hawke and Varric briefly discussed how they came to be there as they ripped them apart for firewood.

They built a small campfire just inside the only entrance to the cave as Fenris lay Anders down upon a bedroll then stretched out alongside him. He kept his brands burning as long as he could until finally exhausted sleep claimed him once more.

***

He was awoken a few hours later when Anders began to thrash and moan again, tossing his head fitfully as he incoherently pleaded for someone, _any_ one to take away the pain and stop it hurting. Reluctantly, Fenris gave him one of the last remaining vials of lyrium. Anders settled soon after, and Fenris was able to sleep peacefully after that for several hours, thankful that Anders had not needed the last half-vial.

They stayed in the small cave for the rest of that day, and the one that followed. Anders was still and unresponsive, his face becoming even more gaunt with each passing day. With difficulty, Fenris and Bethany were able to coax a little water into him, dribbling it a little at a time between his slack lips and massaging his throat gently until he convulsively swallowed. He had two more episodes of fitting upon that first day, but only one in the second. Hawke and Varric took it in turns to go scouting the nearby passages, returning with deep mushrooms and some of the moss which Varric thought might be edible. Fenris had to give the last few drops of lyrium to Anders during the night; as the second night approached, Fenris felt dread creep over him along with the exhaustion. He knew he could not keep awake through the whole night, nor keep his brands lit for that long. Already his body was racked with pain from the effort of keeping them lit for several hours, three days in a row; and he knew he was reaching the end of his endurance.

Varric and Hawke grew grim. Though they said nothing to Fenris, it was clear that both men felt it was only a matter of time before Anders breathed his last. Bethany spent much of that third day in the cave red-eyed, though she shed her tears silently, her back to the others. She shook her head when Hawke tried to get her to eat a bowl of the stew Varric had made from the deep mushrooms, claiming a headache.

Fenris knew the spirits were still drawn to Anders; he could feel them all around. When Bethany tried her meagre healing skills on the sick mage that evening, she reported that she could feel _something_ trying to help her.

“It’s like there’s something there, healing at the same time as I am,” she said in a hushed whisper. “Like there’s another healer working on him, but - there’s no-one here but us!” She stared at Fenris wide-eyed.

“It is as I said; he is a spirit healer. Perhaps some spirit of healing has been drawn to him?” he guessed. “Though I pray that in his weakened state he does not fall prey to some opportunistic demon,” he added as his brows drew together in a frown. “It would not do for him to lose one spirit only to be claimed by another.”

Anders’ breathing grew more shallow and fainter as the evening wore on. By some unspoken agreement, no-one slept that night, certain that Anders would not live till morning.

It would be a long night.


	31. Chapter 31

He stared at his own body. He could barely recognise it; that gaunt creature, face grey, the dark shadows under the closed eyes resembling bruises against the pallor of the cheeks. Though bundled up in blankets, the dying man was racked with shivers, body trembling despite the fever burning him up from the inside; he was drenched with sweat even as he shivered.

He knew what it would feel like in that body; the joints swollen and stiff, every movement painful. The fire in his flesh that burned like shards of ice driven deep into his bones; lungs burning with every shallow gasped breath, like breathing ground glass and fire. The pounding pain that must beat through his skull until it drove out all thought, all awareness even of who he was. The churning nausea that caused the fragile, weak body to twist in agony, stomach twisting emptily inside, trying to purge itself of a poison the body still burned for, bringing up only thin bile.

He didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to remember the tremors racking that body’s slender frame, that turned into seizures and convulsions. He didn’t want to look upon that dying body and remember that pain.

“Don’t make me go back,” he said softly.

“ _Your kind are not meant to live in the Fade forever_.”

He turned to the spirit of healing. The others still clustered nearby, but this one stayed by his side; golden fingers stroked soothingly over his skin, gently touching his face as the long ethereal hair floated around him in the unfelt breeze.

“I’m afraid to go back. I’m dying back there.”

“ _But you are also dying here, Healer_ ,” answered the spirit. “ _Every moment you remain here, your body dies a little more. Without your spirit, it will perish, and you will be with us forever._ ”

“Would that be so bad?” asked Anders. “I’ve been so tired for so long. Can’t I rest now?”

“ _Have you nothing to live for, Healer?_ ” asked the spirit. There was a soft susurrus of whispers from the other spirits as they clustered around. “ _Nothing?_ ” “ _No-one?_ ” “ _No-one to love you?_ ”  
“ _Cherish you?_ ”  
“ _Mourn you?_ ”

Anders turned away to stare at his own body, dying by degrees.

There was a flare of light, and suddenly the shimmering outline of an elf, limned in blue-white light, appeared beside the shivering body below him, its arms wrapped protectively around the dying mage. One glowing hand stroked the sweat-damp hair from the clammy forehead tenderly.

“Fenris!” said Anders.

The elf frowned and glanced about him, not seeing. Though the elf’s powers drew him partway into the Fade, he saw only the physical world about him.

Anders reached for the elf, but Fenris didn’t seem to feel him, though his frown deepened.

“Fenris, it’s me - Anders. I’m here!” called Anders.

“ _He cannot hear you, Healer; just as he cannot hear us. He can feel us around him, but he hears only the living._ ”

“You mean... I’m dead? A spirit, just like you?”

“ _Not yet. But soon. Then you can be with us forever._ ”

“Wait... with you? Do you mean... all you healing spirits, you were once mages? Healers, like me?” he exclaimed.

“ _You will understand soon. You will have all of eternity to understand._ ” The spirit floated before him; he had the impression of a beatific smile, though the spirit’s face was as featureless as ever. “ _Time means nothing here in the Fade._ ”

“But... Fenris,” said Anders slowly. 

“ _Yes, you will have to leave him._ ” It were as though the spirit were looking directly into his mind and heart.

“Anders. _Mi Amatus_. Do not leave me! Do not go where I cannot!” Fenris’ voice came distantly to Anders through the Fade, and the blond apostate suddenly realised the lyrium warrior was weeping as he cradled the dying body in his arms.

“He’s crying. For me.”

“ _Yes. He mourns your passing. But you will forget him soon enough._ ” The spirit’s voice was dispassionate.

“What? No! I don’t want to forget him!” exclaimed Anders, horrified. “I love him, I’ll never forget him!” He stared back at the elf who was hunched over the limp body now, his whole body shuddering as he was racked with sobs. Anders tore at his own hair in distress. “No, I- I don’t want this, he’s _hurting_! I don’t want him to suffer like this!”

“ _You will forget his pain soon. You will forget **him** soon. Come. It is time._ ”

“No,” said Anders, shaking his head. “No, no, I’m - no.” He straightened his shoulders. “I’m not going with you. I’m not done yet. I’m not leaving him.”

“ _You are dying._ ”

“But not dead _yet_!” he replied. He could feel his magic, burning like silver fire through him. He laid his hands upon the dying body - _his_ dying body - and felt another trying to channel healing into it. The touch was hesitant, weak, unskilled; Anders threw his magic into the faltering body, bolstering and guiding that magic as his own flowed. He strengthened the fluttering heart, reaching deep within to draw out the toxins that were clogging veins and arteries, shutting down his body from the inside. He felt the body quiver, the lungs labouring to draw breath as they slowly drowned in their own fluids; and he drew that fluid away. He drew away also the liquid that had collected about the weakening heart; as the pressure eased, it beat harder, stronger.

“Won’t die. Not ready,” he whispered as he poured his magic into the weakened body, revitalising it, giving it new strength.

“ _It will hurt, Healer. There will be pain. Come with us; you will never hurt again!_ ”

“No. My place is with _him_ ,” said Anders grimly. “With Fenris. I’m not done yet.”

He felt their hands upon him, heard soft whispered pleas all around him, but he shook them off. “Send me back!”

“ _Healer... please. Stay with us. We love you. Do you not love us?_ ” pleaded the spirit as it hung before him; he thought he could make out soft gentle eyes of pale silver, filled with anguish.

“I love him more,” whispered Anders.

The spirit regarded him sadly, then nodded.

Pain.

He was in so much pain; every breath was agony, his lungs burning. He tried to speak, but his throat felt as though it were full of broken glass.

His body was racked with shivers, and yet he was burning up; the fire was like shards of ice, jabbing through his flesh to strike bone. His blood was like rivers of ice, and yet he was sheathed in sweat, his skin clammy.

He could feel arms around him, and he managed to open his good eye. He could make out a blurred shape that hung over him, glowing, features indistinct; he was aware of sobbing - a heartbreaking sound. There were words in those sobs; choked, incoherent things, indistinct.

“D-don’t... cry,” he managed, his voice hoarse and pained.

“ _Amatus!_ ” Fenris’ arms tightened about Anders’ frail body and he gasped for breath. Fenris’ voice was shocked, disbelieving.

“Maker, this hurts,” Anders murmured. “Feel so weak.”

“I thought you dying!” breathed Fenris; Anders felt his hand gently stroke his face. Fenris’ hand felt cool and soothing upon his heated skin; Anders managed to turn his head a little, seeking that contact. He could hear the shocked voices of the others - Hawke and Varric, Bethany weeping with relief.

“Not dead yet,” Anders croaked, and managed to smile in spite of the pain.

“ _Amatus. Mi Amatus,_ ” breathed Fenris as he held Anders close.

The apostate drifted slowly into a peaceful sleep in Fenris’ arms.

***

It still hurt when next he woke, but it was a little more bearable. He was lying on a bedroll, waves of warmth from a nearby campfire rolling over him. He could feel a body pressed against him beneath the blankets, one hand flung limply around his waist. He knew from the tingling feel of lyrium pressed against his spine that it was Fenris; the elf was deep asleep, exhausted.

He opened his good eye slowly, and blurred shapes filled his vision. There was a dancing, flickering blob of light that was the camp fire; to one side he could make out a large blurred shape that he guessed was Hawke. A shorter one on the other side of the fire was Varric, he guessed.

“Blondie? You back with us?” asked the short blob.

“Varric?” Anders croaked, and the dwarf gave a sigh of relief. 

“You gave us quite the fright, Blondie, I can tell you! We thought Broody was holding a dead apostate for a little while, until you frightened the life out of us by suddenly talking!” The dwarf shifted around the fire; Anders heard the sound of water sloshing, and then Varric was crouching in front of Anders, slipping a hand behind his shoulders to help him sit up as a cup was set to his lips.

Anders drank gratefully, the water cool and soothing to his throat. When the cup was empty, he blinked up at Varric. The dwarf’s face was still a mass of blurs, but Anders was so glad to be able to see even that much.

“Blondie?” said Varric quietly. “Can you see me?” he asked as he laid Anders back down upon the pillow.

“A bit,” said Anders. “You’re very blurry.”

“Varric?” Hawke’s voice was thick with sleep as the rogue shifted. 

“Hawke! Blondie’s returned to the land of the living,” said Varric; Anders could hear the smile in his voice, even if he couldn’t see it properly.

“Anders!” The Hawke-shaped blob moved over to take Varric’s place, and Anders felt Hawke’s firm strong fingers take a gentle hold of his hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I just went five rounds with an angry ogre,” Anders admitted. 

“You look like shit,” said Hawke.

“Yeah, well, right now you’re just a mass of blurry blobs, so you don’t look much better to me,” said Anders. He shifted slightly and then gasped as even that small movement was painful. “Maker... hurts,” he hissed. His head was throbbing again, painful and insistent.

“Bad?” asked Hawke, a sympathetic note in his voice.

“Bad enough,” admitted Anders. 

“Do you think you could manage to eat something?” the rogue asked gently. Anders gritted his teeth and shook his head.

“Need rest,” he breathed. He closed his eye again; his head was spinning, and he could feel nausea coiling uneasily in his gut. His body ached all over; a bone-deep pain that throbbed in time to the jackhammers pounding in his skull. He turned his face away and buried it in Fenris’ soft white hair; inhaling, he smelled the scent of sandalwood, sword oil and lyrium that was uniquely Fenris. It was comforting.

He slipped back into dreamless sleep once more in the arms of the slumbering elf.


	32. Chapter 32

If he remembered anything of his dreams on waking, it was soon driven from his mind by the insistent pain in every limb, the ache of his head and the twisting of his guts. 

Some involuntary groan must have escaped his lips, for he hadn’t even opened his eye before he felt Fenris shift then gently slip his arms around him, cradling him. He was aware of the proximity of lyrium, and then the elf lit up his brands and mercifully, the pain and aching lessened. He really _did_ groan then, in appreciation and relief. He opened his eye slowly and Fenris’ face blurred into view. The elf’s face was fuzzy and a little indistinct, but it was a definite improvement over his vision before he fell asleep - and a vast improvement over the lingering blindness.

“Hello, love,” he said quietly, and was rewarded with a hesitant smile.

“How do you feel?” asked Fenris softly, his voice a low rumble.

“Like I just went ten rounds with an ogre and then it sat on me,” confessed Anders. “But at least I can see you again.”

“You can see -!” Fenris blinked, and then the hesitant smile widened, became one of genuine joy.

“A bit blurry, but yes,” Anders smiled back.

“Anders! Good to see you back with us,” said Hawke. “Do you think you could manage to eat something? It’s only deep mushroom stew I’m afraid, but it’s better than nothing.”

Anders glanced around at the rogue then nodded. “I can try,” he replied.

Fenris helped him to sit up, slipping behind the blond apostate so Anders could rest against his back and the elf could help him feed himself. With Fenris holding the bowl and gently supporting his elbow, Anders was able to manage about half the bowl of stew; his hand shook, and some spilled down his front, but for the most part he was able to get it into himself until he felt his stomach protesting. Still, it was far more than he’d managed in days, and Fenris was heartened to see more life in the blond mage in his arms. After he’d eaten, there was a little colour restored to Anders’ cheeks, his amber eye a little brighter.

Anders glanced round and noticed Varric and Bethany were asleep; Hawke’s sister was pale, dark shadows beneath her eyes. Hawke noticed Anders’ gaze.

“She’ll be alright - Beth just wore herself out a little watching over you and trying to heal you as best she could. She had a bit of a headache but she’ll be fine,” the rogue said with a shrug. “We’ll all be much better when we can get out of here. How are you feeling now?”

“Incredibly weak, but glad to be alive,” smiled Anders. “Dare I ask how long I was out?”

Hawke and Fenris exchanged a glance. “Four days,” said Hawke heavily. “We thought we were going to lose you. I think we nearly did.”

“Four...!” Anders blinked. Had it really been that long? Time flowed differently in the Fade; he’d had no way of telling how much time had passed in the waking world whilst his mind and spirit wandered with the healing spirits. He knew only too well how close he’d come to dying, but he didn’t think he should share that with them. He could feel Fenris’ arms holding him as tightly as the elf dared, as though the warrior thought he could hold him safe and keep him with them by strength alone. In other circumstances it might have felt almost claustrophobic, but Anders found he didn’t mind; it was comforting.

Fenris had let his brands fade until only the ones upon his arms still glowed, pressed against Anders. It was enough to keep the worst of the symptoms at bay; at least to let him think more clearly. The blond mage was still very wary of moving incautiously; his joints still felt stiff and swollen, and he wasn’t sure he would be capable of walking far in his current condition. But still, it was far better than it had been on wakening, when the burning, stabbing pain made it hard to think straight, demanding almost all his energy and concentration.

“My pack - did anyone bring it?” he asked. “I have herbs in there - elfroot, willowbark, poppy juice. They’ll help with the pain and inflammation. They can’t take away all the symptoms of lyrium withdrawal, but they’ll make them a little more tolerable.”

“You’re pack’s safe,” smiled Hawke as he pulled it out from behind himself. “You’ll have to tell me what’s what and how to prepare them for you.”

The rogue boiled water over the fire, then under Anders’ direction he carefully brewed a herbal tea. He poured out a cup of it for Anders, then set the rest aside to cool.

Fenris held the cup; Anders’ hands still shook too much, even with Fenris’ support, to hold a cup of hot tea. Anders sipped it slowly once it had cooled enough not to scald his mouth; the elfroot was bitter, and the syrupy poppy juice extract didn’t do much to take away the aftertaste, but Anders forebore it willingly. He drank it all, and then leaned back against Fenris to wait for it to take effect.

“Are you tired?” asked Fenris quietly.

“Very,” admitted Anders. “But very glad to still be alive.”

He knew the tea was starting to take effect when he felt himself growing drowsy with a vague sensation of floatiness imparted by the poppy juice. “I should sleep for a while,” he said sleepily. He felt, rather than heard the elf’s reply as Fenris murmured assent and quiet reassurances; his voice rumbled within his chest, the vibrations against Anders’ back soothing. He fell asleep in Fenris’ arms, slipping away gently into slumber.

***

It was a further three days before Anders was recovered enough for them to consider moving on. During that time, Anders grew more worried for Bethany; she seemed withdrawn, but shrugged off his and Hawke’s concerns, saying she was only tired and hungry; the diet of deep mushrooms wasn’t exactly the most filling or nutritious, but it was the best they had.

It was a relief to get out of the small cavern and get moving. Anders could feel his claustrophobia crowding back in on him the longer they stayed there. He was still frequently racked with tremors, his joints ached almost constantly, and his head still ached as much as it had for months; but the elfroot and willowbark tea helped with the pain, enough to push it back and keep moving. When things got particularly bad he would add a little of the poppy juice, but he was very sparing of it - it could be every bit as addictive as lyrium in its own way, and too much could be fatal. But sometimes it helped him to fall asleep at night - particularly when his empty eye socket began to throb, hot and painful behind his eye patch as it had started increasingly to do. 

Gradually, he needed the touch of Fenris’ lit brands less and less. The lyrium craving never entirely went away, and deep down inside Anders suspected perhaps it never would. But he could push it to the back of his mind and keep going - at least for now.

His magic was gradually growing stronger as he slowly recovered his strength and his body continued to heal, but he conserved it carefully, using his various blast capsules in fights with the shades and strange beings that seemed at first to be rock wraiths that they began to encounter and saving his magic for healing and shielding. 

He was growing more and more concerned about Bethany. He was becoming certain that her listlessness and headaches were more than just the product of their diet and the weeks underground, but she shrugged off his concern and insisted she was fine.

They’d just fought off yet another group of the strange rock wraith-like creatures when there was a mighty roar of “ _ **ENOUGH!!**_ ” and a large group of rocks drew together before them to form the biggest rock wraith they’d yet seen.

“Andraste’s tits, look at the size of it!” breathed Hawke as they took a step back, Anders and Bethany gripping their staves in readiness as Varric raised Bianca and Fenris’ brands lit up again.

“ _You have proven your mettle. I would not see these creatures harmed without need._ ” The voice echoed hollowly from the glowing orb that seemed to serve for the creature’s head, floating above the glowing rib cage formed of golden fire.

“You’re the first one here that hasn’t attacked us,” remarked Hawke. Anders stared at the creature, his eyes narrowed; he leaned forward.

“Hawke, that’s not a rock wraith,” he murmured quietly. “That’s a demon.”

Fenris’ sharp ears caught Anders’ words and the elf let out a low, feral growl. “Let us destroy this demon and be done,” he hissed.

“ _These creatures will not assault you further... not without my permission,_ ” said the demon slowly.

“What _are_ these creatures?” asked Varric. “They’re like rock wraiths, and yet....”

“ _They hunger...._ ” answered the demon. “ _The profane have lingered in this place for ages beyond memory, feeding on the magic stones until the need is all they know._ ”

“They feed on the lyrium!” realised Anders.

“So, if you’re not one of them - a profane - what are you then? You talk; you’re obviously intelligent,” said Hawke.

“ _I am not as they are. I am... a visitor,_ ” the creature answered.

“Told you,” said Anders in a sing-song voice. “Demon. Hunger demon unless I miss my guess. It’s here to feed on the hunger of the profanes.”

“ _I would not see my feast end,_ ” said the demon. “ _I sense your desire. You seek to leave this place, but you will need my aid to do so._ ”

“Don’t do it,” Anders hissed as he readied his staff and glared at the demon. “It’ll try to trick you. Demons will trip you up every time.”

“The mage is right,” growled Fenris.

The demon had turned its head to stare at Anders. “ _Ah. Another one who hungers, and for much the same as the profanes._ ” Though it had no visible mouth, they could hear the smile in its voice. “ _Yes, such desire and longing I feel in you... so delicious. It calls to you, does it not? You hunger for it. You **burn** for it._ ”

“Enough, demon!” roared Fenris. “You shall not feed upon him!” His brands blazed brighter as he readied his immense two-handed sword.

“Deal with a demon? I don’t think so,” growled Hawke as he raised his knives. 

“ _Most unwise...._ ” rumbled the demon.

As they launched to attack it, it gestured and two waves of profane suddenly appeared, flanking them on either side; a shout from Bethany told them that their way back had also been cut off. Trapped in the middle, they had no choice but to fight their way through.

Anders called up shields for everyone then turned to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Bethany as she concentrated on providing back-up to Varric and he dealt with the group of profane that had come up behind them. He was aware of Fenris off to his right dealing with those profane there; behind him he could hear grunts from Hawke as he tackled the demon. Anders swung his staff in a wide arc, sending out a fan of ice that blocked the entrance of the profane. He spun to face the demon and rapidly hurled one of his ice blast capsules, rapidly followed up by a fire blast and then one of the little magenta spirit bolt ones before he turned back to unleash chain lightning on the profanes, swinging up his staff to swiftly take down the two that managed to stagger out of the storm of lightning bolts still arcing between the fallen stones that were all that remained of the rest of that group of profane, the rocks still frosted heavily from his ice. He was quite pleased that the staff seemed to be every bit as good at amplifying the effects of his electricity spells as Hawke had said.

A quick glance to his side showed him that Fenris was hard-pressed but still holding his own despite several wounds and scrapes. Anders threw a hand out towards him, sending a wave of healing over Fenris then following it up with a quick Rejuvenate before hurling one of his paralysis capsules at two profane who were trying to flank the elf.

He turned to face the demon. He couldn’t see Hawke but he assumed the rogue was busy striking at the demon from the shadows, continually moving to make it harder for the demon to catch him. Anders hurled another paralysis capsule at the demon’s feet; there was an explosion of green light as it took effect. He followed it up in quick succession with a fire blast capsule and then an ice blast bomb then levelled his staff at the demon to finish off with a blast of lightning; he had the satisfaction of watching several parts of the demon’s rock carapace shatter off as the demon bellowed in pain and rage.

The demon lashed out at Anders; the blond apostate managed to fend off the first swing of its immense stone fist, but the spirit blast it unleashed upon him had him reeling. Its second swing caught him a glancing blow, enough to send him staggering back to collapse to the floor.

He was aware of Fenris screaming his name, and then it all became rather hazy for the next few minutes until Fenris was gently helping him to sit up as Bethany carefully dabbed his face with a damp cloth, wiping away the trickle of blood winding down his face. She brushed his loose hair away from his scarred eye socket and then recoiled with a small scream.

“What? What is it?” asked Anders, dazed; suddenly the cavern seemed much brighter, and he couldn’t understand why he was seeing halos around everyone as they crowded around him, staring at him in consternation. “Will someone tell me what’s wrong?”

“Anders, your - your eye. The - the missing one,” said Hawke hoarsely. The rogue had gone pale; even Varric looked a little ashen.

“Blondie, your missing eye? It, er... it’s....”

“What? What is it?” exclaimed Anders, unable to keep a note of panic from creeping into his voice.

“It’s... not missing any more. Kind of,” finished Varric lamely.

Anders sat up. “What do you mean, ‘kind of’?” he asked slowly. 

“Beth, have you got a mirror on you?” asked Hawke in a hushed voice. Wordlessly his sister hunted through her pack then pulled a small, polished metal mirror. She handed it to Anders, her eyes wide and horrified.

Anders took the mirror with a shaking hand. Feeling a sinking dread, he lifted it to stare at his reflection. A moment later he dropped it with a cry of horror before he tried to scrabble backwards, breath coming fast and frantic in his panic.

Where before there had been only the scarred ruin of the empty socket, now a glistening, glowing orb of silvery blue blinked out at the world, like an eye of living lyrium.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You all knew this was coming.

“What does it mean?” asked Hawke in a hushed voice.

“How in the name of Andraste’s sweet flaming arse should _I_ know?” exclaimed Anders. He was sat on a stone as the others clustered around him. Fenris was a strong, reassuring presence behind him as the elf stood by his shoulder, one hand gently carding through the distressed apostate’s loose blond hair as though he could stroke away the fear and stress that lent an acid-sharp edge to Anders’ voice.

Varric leaned over and patted Anders gently on the knee. Anders dropped his gaze to the ground.

Bethany was knelt near his feet, staring up at him anxiously, Hawke crouching next to her.

“Could it be... the lyrium? All the lyrium you’ve been taking - could it do this?” asked Bethany in a small voice.

“It is possible,” rumbled Fenris quietly. “I overheard Danarius and some of his guests discuss a magister of their acquaintance. He had... taken too much lyrium over too long a period of time whilst engaged in some research; they talked of how he had changed. _Mutated_ was the word they used; the lyrium had caused... strange changes to his physical form. But they did not talk of specifics before me.”

“What’s it like looking through it?” asked Hawke. “ _Can_ you see with it?”

Anders looked up slowly, his face drawn and pale. “Oh yes,” he whispered. He closed his good eye, and the Fade sprang out, sharp and clear all around him. He could see the healing spirits that even now were clustered around him. He could see Hawke and the others by their living auras. It were as though the Veil had been stripped away entirely. As he opened his good eye, the living world reappeared, but he could still see parts of the Fade as though overlaid as a ghost image upon what his flesh-and-blood eye could see; their auras still shone bright, and he could still see the wispy forms of spirits as they flitted around him.

He found himself staring at Bethany. Something was wrong; something was _very_ wrong with Hawke’s sister. Her aura was laced through with black sinuous strands of something unclean and unnatural. He had no idea what it meant. He’d never been able to see auras before; some of the other mages back in Kinloch had claimed to be able to, but he’d never believed them. He’d thought it only the boasting of apprentices - good for a laugh, for a quick lay, but not to be taken seriously. But this? This was real, and outside his realm of experience, and it frightened him.

“Blondie?” prompted Varric.

“I can see the Fade,” he whispered.

“ _Venhedis!_ ” swore Fenris as he recoiled.

“I think Fenris speaks for all of us,” said Hawke slowly.

***

The eyepatch had been sent flying when the demon had lashed out at Anders; though they hunted for it, it was lost amongst the detritus from their fight with the profane and the demon, likely buried under rubble and rock. Not that it would have helped much in any case; Anders soon found that no matter what he held in front of the strange silver eye, he could still see through it to the Fade - though simply closing that eye seemed to work. Still, he couldn’t just walk around with one eye closed; after a while, the muscles around his eye would start to ache. In the end, he gave up and tried to get used to the strange halos and the wispy forms of spirits flitting around them all.

They carried on through the narrow passageway that the demon had stood in front of, reasoning that perhaps it may well have chosen to obstruct their only way out. To Anders’ relief, the passageway opened out after a while, before leading up a rough-hewn set of stairs. It didn’t look like dwarf work, but they had no idea what other denizens of the Deep Roads might have carved them; the profane seemed to lack the intelligence, as would darkspawn. Though Anders had slowly been feeling the itching that told him darkspawn were near for some time, it was too nebulous to tell him where or how far off - but these passageways seemed to lack the telltale black slick of corruption that inevitably accrued wherever darkspawn passed frequently, bringing their dark contagion with them to the very rocks themselves.

“What’s this?” said Hawke as they emerged into a large chamber. It seemed carved and structured very similarly to the primeval thaig they’d left behind.

“This is the vault,” said Varric. “The dwarves would have brought their....”

The clunking of moving rocks had them all turning; several large boulders and chunks of rock were drawing themselves together to take the form of another huge profane standing just behind them.

“Oh, that can’t be good,” said Varric. 

“Another demon?” guessed Hawke.

Anders stared up at the creature; with his human eye he could see it’s stone and fire form, but with the silver eye he could see the twisted form of what might once, millennia ago, have been a dwarf. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s a rock wraith. A very ancient one.”

The rock wraith was mindless; there was no reasoning with a monster that had lost what remained of its mind so long ago that perhaps elves had still dwelt in Arlathan when first it stirred as rock instead of flesh and blood. All they could do was try to take it down as swiftly as they could. It was a hard fight; it called up profane with ease and had some kind of strange magic all its own in the form of pulses of crimson energy that seemed almost to suck the very life and energy from them even as they cried out in pain each time it struck them. Several times it vanished only to reappear again, but Anders found that by closing his human eye he could follow the creature’s movement. The others soon learned to look to Anders each time it disappeared, leaping upon the wraith with renewed vigour as it reappeared.

Finally it was destroyed, the profane nothing more than piles of rubble. They were able to draw breath, staring at each other with looks of relief. Hawke couldn’t quite repress a chuckle. 

“Maker, that was close! Everyone alright?” he said. “Anders? How are you holding up?”

“Exhausted but alive,” responded the mage. Fenris shot him a worried look but he shook his head. “I’ll be OK,” he said. “I ache all over, but I can carry on. Just as long as we don’t run into any more of those things.”

“The rock wraiths are supposed to be dwarven legends,” said Varric, shaking his head. “They’re not even supposed to be real!”

“Looked pretty real to me,” said Hawke. “Everyone OK to move on?” 

There were nods and sounds of assent from the others; they headed out into the vault.

“Legend or not, it doesn’t matter,” said Varric. “Look at what it was guarding!” 

They came to a halt and stared at the chests of treasure piled up just inside the first chamber.

“Let’s see if there’s something that can get us out of here,” said Hawke. “But take whatever you can grab as well.”

They hunted through the chests, stuffing their pockets and packs with gold and gems - as much as they could carry.

“I can’t help but feel this gold will make for a pretty poor stew if we don’t find a way out of here soon, and we can’t drink rubies and emeralds,” Anders murmured to Fenris. The elf hummed in agreement.

“Hello, what’s this?” said Hawke, straightening with a large and very old-looking key.

“Our way out perhaps?” suggested Varric.

“We can hope!” replied Hawke.

They were all tired after several fights in quick succession, both Anders and Bethany drained and low on mana; Anders’ energy was flagging badly, and Bethany wasn’t doing much better. They decided to set camp for the night, and carry on after a meal and sleep.

Anders’ dreams that night were strange, lurid things that he could only vaguely recall upon wakening. His whole body ached in a way that was rapidly becoming familiar and almost normal now, his limbs stiff and his back painful. Strangely, his head throbbed less; he was grateful for one less source of pain however.

Even before he opened the strange, unnatural eye, he knew something was slightly different. When first he had opened that eye following the fight with the demon, he’d not been aware physically of anything being different about the eye socket; he’d felt nothing when blinking, for example, and it was only the proof visible in the mirror and the ability to see into the Fade that told him the lyrium eye was actually there. Now, with his eyes closed, he could feel it just as he could his flesh-and-blood eye. It didn’t feel cold, like metal - like the liquid lyrium when he drank it; it felt... just like his real eye. When he lifted a hand to lightly press it through his closed, scarred eyelid, it felt firm, with a little give - just like a real, living eye. It was only when he opened his eyes that the supernatural nature of the eye became apparent again.

He pulled the little mirror out of his pocket; Bethany hadn’t reclaimed it after he’d seen the eye for himself, so he’d tucked it away without really thinking about it. He stared at his reflection and frowned.

The eye looked less liquid, more solid now - less like a swirling ball of lyrium. It no longer seemed to glow, which was something of a relief. To the casual glance, it might be mistaken for a false eye made of silverite perhaps, or one of those shiny silvered glass marbles he’d seen once on a toymaker’s stall in the market in Hightown. He blinked, and then his eyes widened slightly; he could see a sheen of moisture over the surface of the silver eye. He blinked rapidly and hard, and he felt both eyes water in response. The tears from his normal eye were just clear tears - but those from the silver eye glowed a very faint blue, like incredibly dilute liquid lyrium.

He shuddered and tucked the mirror away. He had no idea what these small, subtle changes meant. 

Fenris glanced over as Anders sat up, and smiled before bringing him a cup of the elfroot and willowbark tea that was fast becoming as familiar as the ache in his joints and bones upon awakening. He’d never been much of a fan of the taste of elfroot, but it, too, was becoming very familiar and normal. Even the bitter aftertaste of the willowbark was almost comforting in its familiarity.

“I think we should press on soon,” said Hawke. “Straight after breakfast, if we’re all ready?”

Varric snorted at the mention of breakfast; of their own supplies, they were pretty much just down to dry hard tack biscuits. Anders dunked his into his tea; it didn’t improve the tea’s flavour any, but at least it made it easier to chew the biscuits and swallow them down.

They ate in silence, then they all got to their feet and got ready to head on.

The vault contained four chambers in all, most with some treasure in though the majority had been in the first chamber they’d come to. At the far end of the vault they found a large iron-bound door. Hawke produced the key he’d found, and to their relief the door swung open.

The other side of the door was a broad, paved passage that seemed vaguely familiar.

“Isn’t this like the passages that were quite close to Bartrand’s camp? The one where we found the rockfall and had to find the detour?” said Hawke.

“I think we just found our way back,” agreed Varric.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Anders said, with a thankful sigh. “How long do you think it’ll take us to get back?”

“If we’re unlucky, maybe a week,” said Varric.

“And if we’re lucky?” asked Hawke.

“We stumble over Bartrand’s corpse along the way,” scowled Varric as he headed on down the long wide passage, his boots loud on the cracked paving stones.

It took only a day before they were back in familiar passages. Hawke looked around with a pleased grin as they stared around the empty cavern where they’d made camp with Bartrand what seemed another lifetime ago.

“And we’re back where we started!” he said.

“Could we.. slow down?” asked Bethany, stumbling slightly. “I’m not feeling very well...”

As Hawke glanced back, Bethany’s knees folded under her and she collapsed before Anders could catch her. He dropped to his knees next to her and slipped an arm around her shoulders as he stared down at her, and suddenly it hit him.

Why hadn’t he seen it? The headaches, her paleness - the black winding through her aura now, thicker and darker than ever. He extended his healer’s senses down into her body, but he knew what he would find even before he touched the contagion in her blood that matched his own.

“It’s the Blight,” he said, his voice faltering. “I can feel it.” As she opened milky, Blighted eyes, he wondered how he had failed to see it sooner.

Hawke dropped to his knees next to his sister.

“I’ll end up just like Wesley, won’t I?” Bethany said weakly as Hawke took her hand in both of his, his eyes wide in shock and denial.

“Beth, no!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “There must be some other way!”

“I’m not going to last until the surface,” Bethany said in a tone of dull resignation. “It’s coming on faster.”

“Anders - please, you’ve got to do something, surely - Maker, you’re a _healer!_ ” cried Hawke. “Please, _do something!!_ ”

“I’m good, but even I can’t heal the Blight, Hawke,” Anders said sombrely. “But there might be something we can do. My maps... I... stole them from a Grey Warden that had come to Kirkwall. I wanted to know if he was looking for me.” He dropped his gaze for a moment, glancing away, then looked back up at Hawke. “He wasn’t; the maps were for planning their own expedition into the Deep Roads.”

“But you took those maps over a year ago,” said Hawke. “Surely there won’t be Grey Wardens here now?”

“They may be,” said Anders. “It takes time to organise an expedition like that - particularly if the Ferelden Grey Wardens are still busy chasing down pockets of darkspawn left after the Blight. And I’ve been feeling something for the past few days... something familiar. I’m certain it’s not darkspawn. If the Grey Wardens are here, then I know where. We could bring Bethany to them.”

“And do what? Become a Grey Warden?” said Bethany slowly.

“Would that... be a cure?” asked Hawke slowly, hope dawning in his eyes.

“Yes, I... suppose it is,” said Anders quietly. He dropped his gaze again, afraid that if he held Hawke’s gaze too long that the other man might somehow read the truth in his eyes.

It wasn’t a cure. The contagion was as much in his blood as it was, now, in Bethany’s; the only difference was that in his case, it would kill him in maybe another ten years or so, if he was lucky. It would kill Bethany within a day or two at most. He would go out fighting - if he lived so long; she would die a painful, excruciating death on the stones of the Deep Roads, never seeing sunlight again unless they took this chance.

She might not even survive the Joining, he knew; not all did. He remembered Mhairi, so full of fire and life, who had wanted to be a Warden far more than he ever had. He and Oghren had survived whilst she gasped out her last, dead less than a minute after drinking from the same cup they had. He had often wondered what it was about her that she had died whilst he had not. The kind of thoughts that would have kept him awake at night - if he hadn’t had far more and far worse to bring him nightmares and drive away sleep both before and after her death.

“It’s not without a price,” he heard himself saying. “And not everyone is willing to pay it.”

“What price?” demanded Hawke; as Anders hesitated, he added, “Maker’s breath, spit it out, man!”

“The process of becoming a Warden is... unpleasant,” Anders said slowly. “And irreversible.” He stared at Hawke. “And it also means you might never see your sister again. It’s... not an easy life, trust me.”

“What about you? You’re not a Grey Warden anymore,” said Hawke.

Anders laughed, hollowly. “You think I got away? Either they or the Circle will one day drag me back; I’ve got no illusions about that.”

He felt Fenris crouch down behind him; one gauntleted hand came to rest upon his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly through the feathers. Anders turned and rested his cheek against the metal, warmed slightly by the fingers inside.

“We’d best not waste any more time then,” said Hawke.

Anders led the way on. Fenris and Hawke carefully supported Bethany between them as they followed, Varric bringing up the rear. Anders was choosing the way as much based upon the scratching feeling in the back of his skull as upon the maps they’d followed to get down here. He led them off through side tunnels, the feeling becoming stronger as they went. As they got closer and closer, Anders began to realise he recognised the feeling of one of the Wardens they were homing in on.

“It _can’t_ be....” he murmured to himself as they rounded a corner into a cavern.

It was.

Three Wardens turned as they entered, one of them a very familiar figure indeed.

“Anders??”

“Nathaniel,” said Anders, striding forward to greet his old friend.

“Maker, man, we all thought you were _dead_!” said the dark-haired archer as they clasped each other’s arm. “And mercy, but what’s happened to you? Your eye...!”

“A very long story, my friend, and one I really don’t have time to share, I’m afraid,” replied the blond apostate. “I... have a favour to ask.”

“You don’t need to ask, Anders,” said Nathaniel quietly. “Whatever it is....”

“It’s not for me,” Anders said firmly, then turned to look pointedly at Bethany.

“The girl?” said Nathaniel, his eyes widening slightly. “You don’t mean -” He took a step towards her, and then understanding filled his eyes. “Ah. You mean her as a recruit.”

“Yes,” replied Anders. “You and I both know it’s her only chance.”

“Anders...” said Nathaniel, shaking his head regretfully. “I can’t just-”

“Nathaniel, _please!_ ” hissed Anders as he caught at Nathaniel’s arm. “Look at her! Trust me, she’ll be well worth your time. With the Blight over you can’t honestly tell me you have recruits lining up.” 

Nathaniel stared at him, not saying a word.

“Nathaniel. _Please._ I’m begging you,” Anders added softly. “For me.”

The dark-haired archer returned his gaze steadily for long moments before his expression softened, and he slowly nodded. “Very well,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” Anders breathed, grateful.

Nathaniel pulled him in for a brief hug. “Thank me if she lives,” he murmured softly in the blond mage’s ear before pulling away. He turned to Bethany and Hawke.

“If she comes, then she comes with us now, and you may not see her again,” he warned the rogue quietly. “Being a Grey Warden is not a cure. It’s a calling.”

Bethany glanced up at her brother. “Are you sure about this, Garrett?” she asked softly.

“If this is the only way you can live?” said Hawke, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’d rather never see you again but know you’re still alive, than carry your corpse back to Mother. This will hurt her terribly - but you dying, after losing Carver - that would kill her, Beth. I’ve.. _we’ve_ got no choice.”

“Then... I guess this is it,” said Bethany faintly. “Take care of Mother, Garrett.”

Hawke took his sister into his arms for one last hug. “I’m going to miss you so much,” he moaned softly. “I love you, Beth.”

“Love you too, Gar,” whispered Bethany.

They watched in silence as the three Grey Wardens headed off with Bethany, the slender young apostate supported by Nathaniel and one of the other Wardens, none of them looking back as they moved as swiftly as they could. No-one moved until after all four were gone from sight.

Hawke stood staring in the direction the Wardens had taken Bethany.

“Hawke?” said Varric quietly.

Slowly the rogue’s shoulders began to shake, as he wept silently for his sister.


	34. Chapter 34

Life went on. 

Hawke took the news of Bethany’s departure to the Wardens back to his mother and Gamlen. Leandra took it about as well as could be expected. The thought that her daughter was still alive was little consolation to a mother who had already buried one child and her husband. Gamlen at least said nothing for once.

Life for Anders didn’t go on _quite_ as it had before; his magic had returned, after all, and it grew stronger day by day. But nor did it return to how it had been before he had lost his magic either. His work now was both healing and alchemy; his healing work now included much he had discovered and developed with alchemy - new potions and treatments. And in turn, his alchemical research was also augmented further by his magic. His mornings were given to research; afternoons to healing - though he never turned anyone away if they knocked before the lanterns were lit. 

He continued to wear an eyepatch; the lyrium eye saw through it, after all, and Anders felt he preferred to avoid awkward questions about it. If his patients were ever curious about it, they never asked. Word slowly got out that the healer’s magic had returned - though not where templar ears might hear. Anders was more sparing of his magic than he might once have been; he tired more easily these days, and taking lyrium was no longer an option. He was almost painfully cautious with the liquid in his experiments now.

Varric had managed to get hold of further interesting books for Anders; the blond apostate didn’t dare ask Varric just how he managed to get hold of the texts - advanced papers on alchemy and magical theory from Tevinter that would have meant death to any mage caught with them in their possession if the templars caught them. They’d burn him at the stake and use the books for the kindling if they caught him - nothing so clean as a hanging or Tranquility for such a transgression as this. But he didn’t care; even these forbidden texts often only half-answered his questions.

“In Tevinter, you would be a respected scholar for your work, invited to collaborate with magisters, lauded for your research,” remarked Fenris one day as he studied one of Anders’ experiments whilst the apostate carefully wrote up his notes and observations.

“Would I be expected to keep slaves and use blood magic?” asked Anders, glancing up briefly to squint at the contents of one of the flasks with his unnerving lyrium eye for a moment before jotting down a further observation.

“Of course,” replied Fenris calmly. “It would be expected.” 

“Not interested,” said Anders firmly. His tone of voice indicated the subject was closed.

Fenris found this curious about Anders; once, it would have occasioned an argument over whether all magisters used blood magic, weren’t there at least _some_ who didn’t, what happened to those who didn’t? and so forth - the same argument they had had repeatedly, over and over again in the past, many times. Now, Anders asked, Fenris replied, Anders nodded understanding and didn’t seek to provoke an argument about it, taking Fenris’ words at face value.

Anders made some comment about dinner and Fenris accepted the change of subject, letting the matter lie; but he puzzled over the change often over the next few days. Something had changed somewhere along the way. The relationship between himself and the mage had subtly changed and shifted once more. Since his initial injury they had gone from antagonistic companions, to friends, to - what? Lovers? Neither had put a name to this thing between them though Anders called him _love_ , the endearment coming so naturally to the mage’s lips. It was not until he had become so very ill in the Deep Roads that _amatus_ had come so naturally to Fenris’ own.

It was a little over four weeks since they had returned from the Deep Roads. Too much had changed between them for either man to drop back into old habits in quite the same way. Anders, at least, was not quite the same man he had been when they descended in search of Bartrand’s abandoned thaig; and the change was more than a silver eye. Things had changed, too, between the man and the elf. This habit of Anders’ acceptance of Fenris’ words at face value was but an outward sign of this change, though Fenris could not fathom its precise nature.

The answer came to him late one night perhaps a week later as Anders lay curled up next to him asleep. Anders didn’t push, because he _respected_ Fenris’ answer. Respected _him_. 

It made the elf feel disquietened; he had taken to asking Anders more of his time in the Circle, pushing for answers when Anders danced around the subject. Anders had mentioned some of the injustices in the Circle, some of the punishments meted out to the mages, on more than one occasion - but always as something that happened to mages in general, never something that had happened specifically to _him_. When pressed, Anders had always said he was “lucky”.

That answer had never felt entirely sincere to Fenris - and the closer he drew to Anders, the less he was content to let it lie. The more he thought on it, the angrier he felt over it - the uneasy feeling that Anders himself had actually suffered these indignities, these punishments, but denied it.

He’d seen scars on Anders’ back - old, faded, silvery with age. He’d been whipped once; of that Fenris was certain; if there was one thing the former slave were familiar with, it was the scars left by a whipping. They’d been healed - by magic, no doubt - but by someone either unskilled in the art, or perhaps by someone low on mana. Someone weak from lack of food and ill-treatment - suffering the after-effects of a dose of magebane, perhaps? Anders never spoke of them. Fenris had never quite dared ask, even though he’d _pushed_ and _pushed_ on so much else.

And the dreams - the nightmares Anders suffered. Some of the things he’d said whilst blind... more and more, when Anders claimed he had been “lucky”, Fenris had begun to wonder how much Anders was downplaying it or outright denying what had obviously happened to him. Yet still Anders deflected as Fenris poked and prodded and would not let the subject drop until he drove Anders to snap at him, wounded and angry and hurt that Fenris kept harrying him on a subject that was obviously painful to discuss.

Anders respected Fenris enough not to press on matters in the Imperium and his former life as a slave. Fenris wondered what was wrong with him that he could not show Anders that same respect in turn - and yet, the thought that Anders had been whipped, beaten, starved, imprisoned... maybe even raped, as he had hinted had happened to others... he could not abide that thought now. It made him burn with anger at the injustice of it - that this gentle, patient man who set aside his own work to heal others, to give of himself over and over, giving his food to starving patients, giving up even sleep to nurse them far into the early hours, who gave his all for others and never for himself - that he should have suffered just as badly as the most mistreated slave in the Imperium had, and all for the sake of something he had no control over, for -

Fenris sat up in the darkness. _For the sin of magic._ For the sin of something they were born to, had never asked for any more than he'd asked to be born an elf, a slave, a man, green-eyed -all things he had no control over.

He was stunned as he sat there in the darkness, the bedroom in his decrepit mansion lit only by the glowing embers of the fire and the single candle near the bed that Anders always begged him not to extinguish.

_Because once he was locked in a dark place where there was no light._

Fenris stared down at the sleeping mage. Anders was curled upon his left side, his scars hidden by the curve of the pillow. His eyelashes made a dark semi-circle upon his pale cheek, tousled dark gold hair scattered upon the pillow and tumbling across his face. His arms were folded up against his chest as though he were hunching in upon himself even in the peace of sleep. He had worked late that evening after they’d returned here from his clinic, writing in a journal until Fenris had tugged the quill from his fingers amidst Anders’ protests and thrust a bowl of stew into his hands instead.

Anders had laughed ruefully and eaten; they had made love afterwards, before Anders finally fell asleep, sated and calm and at peace. Fenris had lain awake after, his arms folded behind his head as he stared at a hole in the ceiling and pondered until his sudden realisation had had him starting upright.

Anders had told him so often how alike they were. He had denied it, over and over; and yet the truth had been staring him in the face all along. He had thought their similarities superficial - both of them stubborn (Maker, how stubborn!), and they’d joked about both learning lessons the hard way. But Anders had been right. Fenris had to admit that the way mages were treated was no better than slavery, in so many ways. They were denied freedom, abused. 

He had asked Anders once what happened to the children of mages. It was late one evening after the mage had had a long day the clinic.

“You say that in the Circle, mages carried on... _liaisons_... with other mages? Illicit relationships? You said Karl was your first.”

“Of course. We’re living, feeling beings, Fenris. We have the same need for companionship, love - and yes, sex - that anyone else has. That doesn’t go away just because someone locks you up in a tower and throws away the key for the rest of your life.” Anders had given him a look of faint exasperation, tinged with a flash of regret and pain in his amber eye before he glanced down at his meal. 

Fenris thought of what Anders had said about rape being one of the weapons in the arsenals of the templars against their mage charges. “Surely sometimes there must be... pregnancies?”

Anders’ head jerked up and he had given Fenris a look the elf couldn’t quite read, his eyes a little wide, his face otherwise curiously blank.

“What of the children? What happens to them?” pressed Fenris.

Anders had set down his fork, white-lipped, and risen from the table without a word. He had undressed and climbed into bed with his back to Fenris. It had been several nights later, after many drinks, when Anders had finally told him how the children of mages were taken away from their mothers immediately after birth and never seen again. Anders hadn’t known what happened to them. Anders was very drunk and had cried himself to sleep in Fenris’ arms afterwards. 

Thinking back on that conversation now, Fenris wondered how he could have been so blind to it before. And yet, never once had Anders referred to anything that affected him directly. It was always, “They do these things to _us_ ,” or “ _This_ was done to _them_.” Never “This was done to _me_ ” or “I suffered this.” The only time Anders ever spoke of what happened to him was when he referred to his escape attempts - very rarely about what happened when he was brought back. 

Fenris stared down at Anders, sleeping peacefully, and thought about silvery scars criss-crossing pale skin; scars never spoken of, even though Anders knew Fenris had seen them and not spoken of them. He stared at the peaceful expression of the mage - guileless, vulnerable and trusting, looking strangely youthful without all the lines of care stamped into his face by duty and worry ( _how old is he anyway? how old when they locked him away? how old when he ran away the first time? how old, the last?_ ) - and wondered what other scars Anders carried on the inside, where no-one could see.

Fenris finally lay back down again, holding his breath when Anders shifted in his sleep. But the mage only snuggled in against the elf’s side, flinging an arm around Fenris’ waist before settling again, his breathing deep and even once more.

Fenris stared at the stars through the hole in the ceiling and wondered if there was there a child out there in some Circle with Anders’ amber eyes and laugh, his dark gold hair. The thought followed him down into dreams.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Carta come calling for Hawke.

Anders hurried up the stairs from Lowtown towards Hightown, panting slightly. Varric’s message had reached him at the end of a long hard day. He and Fenris had been awoken in the early hours of the morning by a pounding on the doors of the clinic; there had been heavy winter rain recently and a section of tunnel in one of the outermost parts of Darktown had collapsed. They’d worked hard alongside other Darktown residents, digging out the living and the dead, Anders throwing himself immediately into healing the injured. When Varric had sent word of some altercation at the newly-claimed Hawke estate, he had sent Fenris off to help, insisting he would be fine.

He’d lost track of time after that until another messenger had arrived to tug at his arm and insist he was needed at the Hawke estate; it was only then that Anders had looked up and realised from the colour of the light filtering in through the high windows in his clinic that it was late afternoon, shading into early evening, and he was exhausted. 

“Healer, go,” ordered Lirene. “We’ve done all we can here now. The living are cared for and there’s nothing to be done for the dead save burying them. Go.”

Anders stared at her then sighed and nodded. She was right, of course. It had been five hours since they’d brought the last living person out of the collapsed tunnels; his healer’s senses had helped guide the rescuers to two small children huddled in a small space beneath what had been their flimsy, ramshackle home, but he had felt no other signs of life. He hadn’t remained to watch as bodies were slowly retrieved from the rubble; as he’d stared at the pile of rubble, he could see all too clearly with his lyrium eye the spirits of the newly-dead, drifting in shock in the nearby Fade. He’d fled, returning to his clinic to do what he could for the survivors and provide hot tea and what comfort he could for the shocked bystanders and rescuers. Focusing on that had helped distract him. Though for the most part he’d adjusted to the experience of seeing half into the Fade and some of the odd abilities the lyrium eye gave him, sometimes he saw more with it than he was entirely capable of handling. Mostly he’d learned to tune out what it saw and focus only on the living world, but sometimes he couldn’t help it and the spirit world just seemed to bleed through and overlay everything - particularly when he was tired; and the last thing he needed was to see more ghosts. His nightmares were bad enough as it was, without more inspiration to add to them.

He’d gathered a bag with a few things then grabbed his staff before heading back towards Hightown. He felt guilty as he paused near the gate to Hightown to catch his breath; Fenris would be worried, he knew, that he’d tarried so long in his clinic and worked so late. He wondered what had happened at Hawke’s mansion that a messenger had come instead of Fenris himself.

He turned the corner into the square where the Hawke mansion stood, and halted as he stared at the dead bodies scattered outside, several members of the Guard going through the bodies. The front doors had been smashed open, one hanging drunkenly half off its hinges, blood splashed halfway up the painted surface. For a bewildering and dizzying moment as he pushed himself forward, past the two Guardsmen turning the body of a dead Carta dwarf over, he briefly saw flashes of light and a ghostly greatsword passing harmlessly through the bodies of the two Guardsmen to slice into the body of a dwarf who screamed soundlessly as his blood splashed up the door and across the lintel, passing _through_ Anders’ boots as he stumbled slightly, for a moment not entirely sure what was real and what was merely an echo in the Fade.

Then he pulled himself together and stepped over the drying blood, blinking hard as he forced his focus back fully into the real and present world, and the scene that greeted his eyes. The blood running down the side of Hawke’s face as he rested, sitting on the stairs amidst a scene of chaos, was all too real and he hurried past the scattered dead bodies and pools of blood to Hawke’s side.

Fenris glanced up from where he crouched next to Hawke, winding a bandage around the rogue’s forearm. “You took your time,” the elf said tersely; Anders could hear the world of worry and unasked questions beneath Fenris’ tone.

“I lost track of time after the last two survivors were pulled out of the rubble,” Anders answered as he set his bag down and took hold of Hawke’s chin to turn his face towards the light, eyeing the cut upon his brow with a slight frown before he lifted fingers that already glowed blue with healing magic to close the cut and set to work.

Fenris merely grunted.

“I’m fine - just a few nicks is all,” Hawke objected. “You were needed more there, honestly, Anders!”

Anders stared through him with his lyrium eye as he reached with his magic for the tendrils of poison working their way through Hawke’s system. “Perhaps,” was all he said as he drew the toxins out of the man’s bloodstream. “I’m here now, and thankfully in time.”

“Poison?” guessed Fenris.

“Hmm,” Anders hummed in agreement. He traced a finger through the drying blood upon Hawke’s forehead and suddenly heard Carta voices calling for Hawke blood. He blinked, startled, his amber eye widening as he stared at Hawke. “Why were the Carta after your blood, Hawke?” he exclaimed.

“I have no idea!” protested Hawke, attempting to shrug, his efforts hampered by Fenris still bandaging his arm.

“Be still!” growled the elf.

“You must have _some_ idea, Hawke,” said Aveline as she stomped in and glanced around at the mess. “I wasn’t aware you’ve been treading on Carta toes recently?” She nodded to Fenris in greeting. “Hullo Fenris, Anders.”

“I haven’t though!” said Hawke. “For once I’m actually innocent!”

Varric snorted, but shrugged as Aveline glanced at him. “For once, he probably is,” the dwarf explained. “At least, I haven’t heard of any reason for the Carta to be particularly pissed at Hawke at present. Well, no more than usual, anyway. It’s not as though we’ve taken on any jobs recently that ran counter to Carta interests.”

“I’ve been too busy helping Mother petition the Viscount to get the estate back once we’d finished shifting the last of the treasure out of the Deep Roads,” agreed Hawke. “I haven’t been running counter to _anyone’s_ interests, except for maybe a couple of minor nobles whose noses are put a bit out of joint by suddenly having a jumped-up Ferelden dog lord for a neighbour.” He grinned, unrepentant.

“Hardly grounds for calling in the Carta, and not their style anyway,” said Aveline with a frown. “Still, you -”

She broke off as Anders finished healing Hawke and stood up a little too fast; he staggered, and she caught him before he could fall. “Easy there, Anders!” she exclaimed.

Fenris was at his side in an instant, an arm around Anders’ waist as for a moment the mage’s vision greyed out. 

“Sit him down here,” he heard Hawke saying, and then everyone seemed to be trying to help him at once even as he weakly protested that he was fine, just tired.

“That looks like more than just simple tiredness, Blondie,” remarked Varric as Anders blinked slowly, glancing around himself disoriented, finding himself sitting on the stairs between Hawke and Fenris. The elf’s green eyes regarded him intently with thinly-disguised worry.

Anders shrugged. “I’ve been on my feet for hours healing,” he replied. “I don’t have the reserves of strength I used to have with Justice.”

“Anders -” began Fenris, frowning; Anders cut him off with a brief wave of his hand.

“I haven’t touched lyrium,” he assured them. “Believe me, you’d know if I had.”

“Glad to hear it,” remarked Aveline drily. Though she hadn’t been with them during the expedition to the Deep Roads, the others had given her the bare bones of what had happened to Anders - enough for her to work out for herself where his strange silver eye had come from. She’d been as worried as any of the others over his growing addiction, though she never fussed in the way Hawke often did.

She straightened and nodded to Hawke. “My men will deal with the bodies. I’d appreciate it if you drop by my office tomorrow to give a statement, Hawke. In the meantime, try not to tread on any more Carta toes.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” Hawke assured her. “Thanks, Aveline.”

“Get some rest, Anders; you look done in,” she remarked before nodding farewell to them all.

“hawke, I don’t like this,” said Varric slowly. “I think I ought to do some nosing around, see if I can find out why the Carta have their panties in a twist over you right now - more so than usual, I mean.”

“It’s the blood,” Anders said tiredly. “Hawke’s blood. They were shouting for it.”

“How in the name of the Maker’s blue balls did you know that?” exclaimed Hawke as he stared at Anders in surprise. He smiled a little listlessly and spread his hands.

“It’s the eye,” he replied with a shrug. “It’s not just the Fade I can see. I get... flashes, sometimes. Like something has imprinted on the Fade, perhaps, or maybe it’s because the Veil is so damned thin in Kirkwall; but for a moment I could hear the Carta dwarves shouting for your blood.”

“You left that part out, Hawke!” remarked Varric in a slightly accusatory tone. 

“And I’ll be leaving it out when I speak to Aveline tomorrow as well,” replied Hawke heavily. “At least until I know more about what’s going on.”

“Can you hear them now?” asked Fenris quietly. “The Carta dwarves?”

“No - thankfully,” replied Anders with a shudder. “I’ve seen enough ghosts for today.”

“How bad was it?” asked Hawke quietly, his voice gentling slightly.

“Bad enough,” replied Anders bleakly. “We lost more than we saved. It’s never easy to lose a patient, but with this -” He gestured at his silver eye, then exhaled softly as Fenris’ hand tightened slightly upon his shoulder. He managed a wan smile. “I’ll be OK,” he assured them. “I’m just very tired.”

“Stay the night,” suggested Hawke. “Both of you,” he added as Fenris raised an eyebrow. “I’ve rooms to spare, and I don’t think Anders is fit to go far in his state. Stay the night and have breakfast in the morning.”

“Sounds a good idea,” said Varric. “And I’ll go nosy around and see if I can find out more about this Carta business. See you in the morning, Hawke.”

“Come on, let’s get you upstairs, Anders,” said Hawke as he got to his feet then turned to offer the mage a hand. Anders let himself be pulled to his feet, then turned and followed Hawke up the stairs, Fenris’ hand still wrapped comfortingly around his waist.

Whatever the Carta wanted could wait until morning; the comfort of a soft bed was calling him.


End file.
